Sons of Thunder II: Where the Shadows Lie
by ziggy3
Summary: Gondor adjusts to Peace, but there are artefacts in the ruined cities of Mordor and Eregion that are of value to those who are not so pleased about the return of the King. The Fellowship are drawn into the pursuit of one of these artefacts, especially since a body has been discovered, drained of blood. Legolas, Gimli, Pippin, Merry, Gandalf, Aragorn, Elrohir, Elladan.(Slash L/El)
1. Chapter 1

Sons of Thunder II: Where the Shadows Lie.

BETA: The incomparable and generous Anarithilen. Thank you as always.

 **Sons of Thunder** is the story of Elrohir and Legolas. WARNING: This is a slash pairing with violence, sexual violence, elements of non-con and certainly references to it. At least one scene with dubious consent. Some of the sex IS gratuitous but the violent sex is always part of the plot and essential.

All my stories follow the canon timeline but fill in and play about with characters, but essentially the plot remains as Tolkien wrote it.

You don't have to have read any of my other stories - anything that needs explaining I am intending to put into the writing. Anything I can't will be noted at the beginning of the chapter.

 **Chapter 1: On the edges of Mordor**

It was in the blessed time after the War had been won but Aragorn had not yet been declared King. The Fellowship basked in the peace of those blissful days after the War and Aragorn had not yet come to the White City but remained camped on the Field of Cormallen. They met each evening to share supper and they had begun to tell their tales and every morning there was a small gift to be found for Sam and Frodo to remind them a living things. Legolas had taken this upon himself for each of the Fellowship had their part to play in the Hobbits' recovery; this was his.

He threw open the flap of Aragorn's huge tent. _One_ of Aragorn's huge tents, he amended, for it was not the tent where the King Returned was at this moment. This was the tent Legolas was looking for though. It was where the King dined and at one end of the tent were chests full of gleaming silver cutlery and glass that sparkled in the sunlight. He grabbed a crystal goblet that was so fine, so delicately made it looked like it would shatter if drunk from, and tossed it cheerfully into the air and caught it at the moment one of the stewards turned to look.

'My lord, that is from the reign of Túrin the Second!' protested the steward. 'It is crystal, made by the Dwarves of Erebor before the Dragon!'

Legolas balanced it upon the tip of one finger and flashed his most blinding smile. 'It is for these,' he said, opening his hand and showing them the slender buds of anenomes. 'They need water or they will die.' He spun the goblet so it flashed and gleamed. 'For the Hobbits.'

The nervous steward softened immediately. 'I have the very thing,' he said and clicked his fingers towards a passing servant who was hurrying past with a basket of fresh loaves in one hand and a dish of fried mushrooms in the other. 'When you have served second breakfast, please bring the crystal flower flute, the _very_ fine one from Boromir the First's reign.' He turned to Legolas and smiled complicitly. 'It is quite priceless but those flowers will look enchanting in it.' He paused and then asked anxiously, 'My lord, are you not expected at the King's council?'

'Oh, I do not suppose he needs my counsel in addition to everyone else's,' Legolas replied nonchalantly. 'It is far better that I attend the hobbits for second breakfast,' for he had seen Merry and Pippin had just entered the tent and were waving at him.

'Good morning Legolas! Are you joining us? It's just Merry and me otherwise, and that is hardly worth all the effort they have made.' Pippin waved an apple at Legolas and grinned. In one corner of the huge tent was a low table and bench. The table was laden with loaves of bread and honey and butter, cheese and eggs, bacon and mushrooms and jugs of water sparkling. The hobbits perched on a bench at the wide table, feet dangling. They scooted up to make room for Legolas though he had to stretch his legs out in order to fit.

'Apparently I am late for Aragorn's meeting,' he replied unconcerned, reaching over and snagging a slice of bread which he spread thickly with butter and then honey. 'I am useless at meetings anyway,' he said. They ate eggs, bacon, mushrooms, cheese, fruit and the small delicious loaves that he liked so much. Much later, he licked his fingers and gestured to the crystal goblet. 'I am taking these for Sam,' he said and rose to his feet. 'And then I suppose I had better go and find out what Aragorn has decided.'

'Do you have to?' Pippin asked plaintively. 'Gimli is already at the council and he'll tell you all the important bits. Surely Aragorn can manage on his own?'

'Yes, he has Gandalf, and Gimli, and all those advisors and officials, and we only have you,' Merry added grinning, and Legolas laughed.

'I think I have to go. Aragorn wants me to ride into Minas Morgul with Gandalf and it would be good to know what I have to do when I get there.'

'You are going into Minas Morgul?' Merry asked horrified. 'Surely Sauron is defeated, gone. There is nothing left.'

'He is defeated indeed,' Legolas agreed. 'But as to there being nothing left, well someone needs to find out if that is indeed the case.'

'It sounds dangerous to me,' Pippin said looking up at Legolas anxiously. 'Legolas,' he said a little hesitantly, 'are you sure it should be _you_ going? You know the Nazgûl seemed to have a special interest in hurting you.'

Legolas patted Pippin on the shoulder tenderly, affectionately. 'Thank you Pip. Khamûl especially did seem to really dislike me for some reason.' He laughed lightly. 'I think it was because I fought them in the Wood, at the command of my brother. I was one of Laersul's warriors and they _really_ hated him. In fact, I do not know who they hated more; my father or my brother.' He considered. 'Or my other brother.'

'Oh! You have two brothers?' Pip breathed. 'I didn't know.' He looked crestfallen that they could have travelled for so long with Legolas and yet know so little about him.

'I will tell you of them some day if you like, Pip. They are both far more suited to almost anything than I am. They are very brave and very clever. But I am a better archer and much better looking. Also my middle brother is a lackwit.' He grinned so Pippin would know that was not true for Thalos was more than a match for any, and suddenly Legolas felt a pang of loneliness; he remembered the news that had reached them a few nights ago, that Celeborn and Thranduil had fought a terrible battle under the trees and met only days before. He knew his father was alive but there had been no news of his brothers, or Galion. Or any of his friends.

Although some of his friends had already fallen.

Legolas' hands stilled and he looked down, remembering Anglach; he squeezed his eyes shut trying to block out the last time he had seen his closest friend, the light hearted and playful Anglach, whose eyes had been gouged out and ears cut off by orcs when Smeagol was freed. And there was too the vision that Saruman had given him when they were in Orthanc, of a body hitched upon a lance, golden hair fluttering. Saruman had suggested it was Thranduil and while the Battle under the Trees had been won, that did not mean his father was safe, or that orcs had been entirely driven from the Wood.

Slowly he became aware of a warmth on his arm and looked down to see that on one side Pippin was looking up at him with concern and Merry on the other.

'Is it the sea-longing?' Merry asked and Legolas frowned.

'No! No,' he said more gently. 'No indeed, that is…that is a joy to my heart although still a bewilderment… No. I was just a little homesick.' He smiled slightly.

'I get that too, don't I, Merry?' Pippin turned to Merry who nodded. 'I miss the Shire. I miss Longbottom Leaf and ale and beer. I miss bread and butter and cheese and pickles and ham and eggs and bacon and tomatoes and …'

Legolas laughed and spread his hand out towards the considerable feast before them.

'I know,' said Pippin and he helped himself plentifully to the slices of ham and bread and cheese and pickles and butter. 'But it just doesn't taste the same,' he said with his mouthful.

Suddenly a man dashed through the tent door, looking about in consternation. The hobbits and elf looked at him and when he saw them, he looked intensely relieved and sketched a hasty bow. 'My lord,' he said to Legolas, who almost twitched as if he wanted to shrug off the title that he did not care for. 'Please will you come with me. His gracious majesty has asked that you attend him.'

Legolas sighed and rose to his feet. 'Farewell then my friends. Think of me when the hour is long past noon and I am still listening to Aragorn's many advisors and lords telling us again how glorious is the King, how he has single-handedly vanquished the forces of all darkness and evil, how the land is more fertile and the animals gone silly with breeding, how flowers blossom where his feet touch the grass.' He laughed merrily and tossed the crystal goblet in his hand ignoring the smothered cries of the servants. 'Tell the King I am coming. But I have something else to do first.'

Sam and Frodo were still asleep when he left the delicate flowers in the crystal goblet on the table beside them. He carefully placed so it would be the first thing Sam saw when he opened his eyes. And only then did he go to the council of the King Returned.

0o0o

When he arrived at Aragorn's tent, the wing-helmed guards snapped to attention and stood aside to let him pass.

Aragorn was half bent over a map and his hair was in his eyes.

'…we _must_ search in Minas Morgul,' he was saying as Legolas entered. 'We need to be sure there are no secret enemy forces.' The captains and the great lords of Gondor were seated or standing around the long oak table upon which were spread maps of Gondor and its surrounding lands. The map of Mordor was before Aragorn. All had the weary expressions of those who had been long in debate and discussion. Aragorn glanced up irritably at Legolas' entrance and then softened when he saw it was his friend.

Gimli turned and hurrumped emphatically and Legolas flashed him a smile, but in truth his attention was all on Elrohir who sat at Aragorn's side, a cane resting against one thigh for he was still wounded from the Battle of the Morannon, his beautiful face impassive. But his eyes were smokey with lust the moment Legolas walked in. Legolas inclined his head to the gathered lords, and Imrahil smiled warmly. Legolas was grateful that Eomer was not there for the Man still watched Legolas with hurt and longing in his eyes.

Legolas walked behind the gathered lords and captains and although they made as if to part for him so he could stand at the front of the long table and beside Aragorn, he waved his hand carelessly in dismissal and indicated he would stand further back. In truth he wanted to stand _opposite_ Aragorn but only so that he could gaze at Elrohir, to look his fill and to distract him if he could.

'If indeed the forces of Sauron have been vanquished, there will be nothing there anyway,' one of Gondor's great lords spoke. He was a tall man with grey hair and leaned upon a cane much as Elrohir. But this was not through injury but through infirmity; Legolas remembered that Bard had done the same as he grew old. 'Surely you do not wish to risk our remaining men to satisfy mere curiosity?' the old man declared. There was a slight stirring amongst the gathering, one Legolas recognised from his father's court; some would be anxious at the implied slight to the new King, others would agree. But if Aragorn had anything about him, Legolas knew, he would simply assert his will.

'Curiosity now may well mean that we catch any stragglers, my lord Adrahil,' Aragorn said calmly to the aged lord. 'Any strays who might later attack our settlements. Or there may be some greater danger that we do not yet know.'

Legolas stifled a sigh and was bored; he knew they would go to Minas Morgul as Aragorn desired and search the ruined city to make sure the Nazgûl had truly departed with Sauron. Gandalf had wanted it. He wondered why they even bothered discussing it. This was a waste of his time, he thought, when he might be doing more interesting things instead.

He watched the sun catch in raven-black hair instead of listening, stared in fascinated lust at the rounded tip of Elrohir's ear and thought about running his finger along the edge. His sigh was longer, louder this time and an entirely different sound; several men glanced his way although none said anything. But he saw Elrohir twitch.

'Here is the road from Osgiliath,' Aragorn stabbed his finger down onto the map. 'And here,' he ran his finger along the thick black line that marked the road, 'is Minas Morgul. Can you not see, it is the most strategic point on the river, our mainstay….'

Legolas stopped listening again and drifted around the back of the gathered lords as if he were going to peer over Aragorn's shoulder at the map, to get a better view.

It took him directly behind Elrohir's chair, and when he leaned forwards slightly to look at the map, he let his breath drift over the back of Elrohir's head, it lifted one or two strands of his long black-silk hair and Elrohir turned his head ever so slightly to glance back over his shoulder at Legolas, standing close, too close, behind him. His lips turned upwards slightly and then he turned back to face all the generals and lords.

'I wager we will be leaving at dawn,' Legolas whispered so quietly against Elrohir's ear, deliberately letting his breath caress it and was pleased at the shiver it brought. 'Will you miss me?'

Elrohir shifted uncomfortably and Legolas smiled and let his hand surreptitiously trace the straight spine of his beloved who was trying so hard to concentrate.

'...the bands that escaped the assault on the Morannon will have taken to the hills here...' Aragorn was pointing to an outstretched map in the middle of the table. 'And here too, in the Morgul Vale.'

'I will be glad of some rest,' Elrohir murmured below the hearing on Men, he turned his face slightly towards Legolas and smiled. 'You have quite worn me out.'

Legolas raised an eyebrow. 'Then I will find you well rested and eager on my return,' he whispered back. Aragorn glared at them for a moment and Legolas flashed him a brilliant smile.

'The Morgul vale is where the Nazgûl dwelt,' Aragorn continued. 'It will be an evil place and I need to know if it is quite vacated or there is some evil lingering. Are all their winged beasts dead or do they have more kept in there?'

'I will take a troop of riders, my lord, if you wish?' Imrahil said smoothly, as if he and Aragorn had not prearranged precisely this conversation to persuade the lords and captains of the necessity. 'Twenty will suffice will it not, if it is merely to search the ruins? We will not engage with any substantial forces, and if my lords Elladan and Elrohir will come? And perhaps you too, my lord?' He bowed slightly to Legolas who grinned excitedly at Aragorn. 'We will be sufficient.'

'I am delighted to be of service, my lord,' he said to Aragorn. 'And I know a dwarf who will be very grumpy if he does not ride at my back….' Gimli made a sound that Legolas assumed was agreement. 'But my lord Elrohir should not go,' he said emphatically. 'He is not recovered.'

Elrohir began to protest but Aragorn spoke over him. 'Certainly not. He cannot even stand for a council, let alone ride to Minas Morgul. No, he will stay here.'

'I am more than capable…' Elrohir tried to say but Legolas cut across him.

'Good. That is settled. Gimli will go in Elrohir's stead. That will be more than enough I am sure, Aragorn, to check out a few 'wee beasties' as the dwarf would say.' He laughed brightly and flashed another smile at Aragorn.

'If there are wee beasties, it'll be a good thing you have my axe,' Gimli said over Elrohir's further protest.

Elrohir began to rise to his feet but Legolas was always stronger than he and firmly pushed him back into his chair.

'Stay,' he said lightly, humorously. 'You will slow us down.' But the smile he gave was soft with love although Elrohir did not return it. Nor did he meet his gaze.

00o0oo0o

Elrohir seethed.

How dare Aragon and Legolas talk over him, decide if he were strong enough to ride, to fight, to go with the company to Minas Morgul!

He leaned heavily on the ebony cane and limped over to the heavy wooden table that someone had thought it necessary to bring all this way and put into a tent for his comfort. One handed, he pulled the stopper from a cut glass decanter, equally unnecessary, and poured himself red wine into the cut glass goblet. He looked around in contempt, feeling the familiar surge of fury swirl around him.

Not gone.

Just because Angmar and Sauron have gone does not mean I am whole, he ground out, hating himself. Hating his weakness.

'You should not be on your feet! Here, let me.' Legolas caught him by the elbow and began to turn him, intending to steer him to the carved chair near the tent doorway.

Elrohir shook him off and turned glaring at him. 'I am not an invalid. Nor a fool!'

Legolas took a step back. His eyes were wide in astonishment . 'I know. I just…'

'You just treat me like one! You and Aragorn talking over me like I am some whining whelp still wet from its mother's milk! How dare you speak for me!'

But Legolas was not easily intimidated either and he bristled right on back. 'Then stop whining like one. You are injured.'

'In my leg not in my head!'

'And you cannot ride!'

'You treat me like I cannot think for myself, cannot do anything myself.'

'I know.' It was as if Legolas had suddenly remembered what it was like and tried to soothe, placate. 'I am sorry. Sit down please and let me do this for you.'

But Elrohir was too angry, and his leg hurt, throbbed wildly. 'For the last time, stop treating me like I am an invalid.'

'But you are an invalid.'

'I am mildly wounded.

'You nearly died...'

'And you are suffocating me!' Elrohir breathed in suddenly, almost a gasp. He felt like clapping his hand over his mouth as if he might take back those words; he would drive Legolas away.

Legolas stepped back, hands spread and Elrohir's heart dropped away as if he were falling from a great height. Of course. Legolas would leave now and with time and distance, he would wonder why in all of Arda he had taken up with one so soiled and corrupted as Elrohir was.

Legolas sighed. 'Yes. That is probably true. Perhaps we are both too anxious about the other right now?' He looked with mild enquiry and Elrohir, hardly able to believe, almost held his breath. 'It's just I have never felt this way before about anyone.' And the Wood-elf grimaced slightly. Elrohir tried not to think it was because it was a well-worn phrase for Legolas; he knew Legolas had had many lovers before Elrohir, and Elrohir had not. He did not want to think about that either. He did not want to feel even more soiled that he already was.

'Let us agree then,' Legolas said and smiled. 'We will not seek to prevent the other from doing anything that we would not prevent Gimli from doing.' His smile became a grin then and Elrohir smiled back.

Elrohir conceded, 'I can live with that; if Gimli said he was going to climb to the topmost branch of that oak, I would be able to stop him because as a dwarf, he would not be safe.'

Legolas laughed softly. 'And if Gimli said he was going to swim that mighty river or cross the Hithaeglir in Winter, I would stop him because he is too short and would be lost in a snow drift.'

Their eyes met. 'It will take us time, beloved,' Legolas said. Elrohir reached out and stroked a finger over Legolas' cheek, marvelling because he could. He gazed at Legolas and there was a slight smile on his lips, disbelieving, and Legolas laughed.

'What?' he asked. 'Do I have something on my face? In my hair? In my teeth?'

Elrohir laughed softly and dropped his gaze, then looked back up. 'No. I just cannot believe you could love me.'

Legolas made a sound that was part sad and part irritated. 'How can you doubt this? You are Ravéyön. You saved me three times, from the Nazgûl no less. You defeated the Brethren gathered to take you into shadow. You are the Son of Thunder. How could I not fall helplessly at your feet?' he said extravagantly and looked adoringly into Elrohir's face. He leaned towards him and kissed him deeply. 'Never forget, Elrohir, my beloved, I am utterly yours. Every bit of me is yours. My heart and soul and body.'

Elrohir lifted his hand then to Legolas' lovely face and cupped it so Legolas turned his face into his palm and kissed it. 'I do not deserve you.

'Was I won too lightly then?' Legolas said laughing and pulled away.

Elrohir shook his head but in his heart, a little quaver of doubt seeded itself. Was he too lightly won? Not by Elrohir, but Eomer? 'I do not deserve you,' Elrohir repeated and he meant it with all his heart.

o0o0o

Next chapter: Minas Morgul..


	2. Chapter 2 Into the Morgul Vale

Note: Reminder that in Through a Glass Darkly, Legolas and his companion, Rhawion are attacked by a Nazgûl and Rhawion is killed.

Nana means mum/ mother but you all know that already!

Beta: The very wonderful Anarithilen.

Thank you all for the deluge of reviews and comments, kudos, favourites, follows etc. I admit I was a bit overwhelmed and encouraged and flattered. I had meant to post this at the weekend, but thought you'd want it now. Please do keep those reviews coming- I get very despondent if I think no one is interested.

 **Chapter 2: Into the Morgul Vale**

They left for Minas Morgul soon after and though he tried not to show it for Elrohir's sake, Legolas was in high spirits and wanting to do something, to move, to get out of the stifling inaction of the huge camp on Cormallen Field. Whilst it was good to sit amongst the Fellowship, hear their stories and to simply enjoy their companionship, his nerves were still strung from his own injury and his fingers twitched for action; it was too hard to sit for long and not do anything. He wondered indeed how they would all cope with peace. Gimli too was restless, even if this excursion was, as the dwarf had said, a picnic compared with their recent adventures. But he found that riding Arod with Gimli tucked safely at his back and Gandalf on one side, Elladan on the other, with Imrahil close by, he was looking forward to it.

It helped that Eomer was not there, for he knew the Man watched him still with yearning and hurt.

'Where are you in your head that merits such a heavy sigh?' a gruff voice broke in on his thoughts. 'Too much in the past?' Gimli continued.

Legolas felt the dwarf's strong fingers seek his own and squeeze slightly. He canted his head back towards the dwarf, feeling a surge of affection for his steadfast friend. 'Perhaps,' he said.

'Perhaps this adventure is too much for you?' Gimli worried. 'I knew you were not ready. I should have insisted that Aragorn send someone else.' Legolas felt the dwarf move his hands back and worry at the ends of his beard.

'I am perfectly able to ride a horse and keep an eye on one recalcitrant dwarf,' Legolas said quickly with a smile and reached behind him to catch Gimli's hand before he stuck the ends of his beard into his mouth. 'Thank you Nana Gimli. And I have cleaned my teeth and brushed my hair, and I have washed my face, hands and feet this morning.'

Beside him, Imrahil leaned over slightly to Elladan and said quietly, 'Is _Nana_ a title of affection, like _Elvellon_?'

Elladan opened his mouth to explain but Gimli said quickly and rather loudly, 'Many times have I had to explain, Prince Imrahil. It means Great Dwarf-lord who is fearsome and pinches little elves if they do not behave.'

Legolas laughed aloud and there was a dig in his ribs and he stifled a yelp for he was still sore and his ribs had not quite recovered from the battle.

'I know where you hurt,' the dwarf murmured at his back. 'Think on it before you speak again or I shall make you yelp so hard that even Gandalf will think you should go back.'

Elladan smiled indulgently and glanced at Prince Imrahil, who returned Elladan's smile. Legolas watched them both obliquely, thinking how close those two had become in the aftermath of battle. He wondered where that would end: Elladan was quite obviously smitten. But then he had not yet made his Choice, nor had Elrohir.

Legolas was silent. If Elladan chose the Way of Men, how would that affect Elrohir? Would it pull Elrohir towards that fate?

'This is a grim place,' Gimli muttered behind him.

It was indeed and Legolas pulled his attention back to the landscape before him. Ash from the eruption of Mount Doom floated like light snow in the air around them but it felt grimy and gritty on their skin and caught in the back of their throats. A thin layer covered the black rocks like dull grey frost.

Minas Morgul lay ahead, a broken, jagged city in the shadow of the mountains. Elrohir had told Legolas that it had once been a fair and radiant city that seemed filled with silver light, that bells rang with every hour and the valley had chimed and echoed with music and the long pennants streamed in the wind. But Legolas could not believe this dull and drear place had ever rung with anything other than the sound of war: of Orcs, the clank of machines of destruction and the hoarse cawing of the Nazgûls' winged lizards. He shuddered in horror at the memory of reptilian skin, slick and silver in the rain.

But the Nazgûl are gone, he told himself firmly, knowing that he was not quite recovered from the Black Web that had sunk into his veins. His own Song lapped through him like the lake on its shores, or the Sea, knitting his bones, smoothing the knotted nerves and fragile senses. And Elrohir's love cradled him like cupped hands.

At the entrance to the city, were two stone statues; gargoyles, winged and open mouthed __and now limned with white ash, and as they approached the sentinels, Legolas had a sinister sense of being watched. Arod shied a little and pulled back.

Suddenly, a green light shot through the city, shimmering like a poisonous haze over it. Legolas could not help the gasp that escaped him; corpse light, like the ghosts of the Dead Marshes, washed over the walls of the abandoned city and shot into the air. Green spears of light pierced the dark and washed over the sky, dissipated into the grey ash.' What is that?' he cried, horror prickled his fingertips and down his spine.

'What is what?' Gimli demanded. 'Did I catch you? I am sorry, Legolas. I did not mean…'

'No! Did you not see it? That mist? It just…'

'What?' Elladan pulled up beside him.

'Did you not see?' Legolas turned in distress towards Gandalf. 'That light, like the Summer Lights, but …poisonous.' He stared at Gandalf who urged Shadowfax towards him, his blue eyes narrowed and looked ahead where Legolas pointed. 'Gandalf, did you see…?'

'There is nothing, Legolas,' Elladan said soothingly. He pulled his black horse, Baraghur, up beside Arod. 'Perhaps it is just the light and the atmosphere of this place.' He looked up at the tall keep that rose from the centre of the city. 'It feels full of malice and cruelty.'

Legolas stared up at the walls of the silent city. It felt watchful, but there was nothing and he thought perhaps the venom that remained a slick in his veins made him see things that were not, or that had been but were no more perhaps?

They clattered into the city; the men shuddered as they passed between the gargoyles, and every horse shied and surged quickly past as though the ugly stone statues were somehow sentient and might yet reach out to grab them as they passed and tear them in their gaping jaws and fangs.

Imrahil had been given the leadership of the troop by Aragorn. Now he turned his grey horse in a tight circle and gave his orders in a low voice, for the silent city felt like it merely waited for the Nazgûls' return and the Men could not help but keep their voices hushed. 'Elladan, will you take the North road and see what is down there? Make sure you flush out any orcs or enemies. Be on your guard.'

Elladan turned to beckon Legolas over but Gandalf stayed him. 'I need Legolas with me, but you may have Gimli,' he told Elladan. 'I will take five Men with me to explore the Keep,' he added, looking at Imrahil as if for permission but in truth, it was no such thing.

Legolas reached behind and clasped Gimli's hand to ease him down. 'Take good care of my dwarf-friend,' he told Elladan, only half-mocking. 'He is very pig-headed and wont to run straight into danger. You will have to restrain him as I do.' Legolas smiled at Elladan as he spoke for the elf-lord was so like Elrohir that it gladdened Legolas' heart. Elrohir. The very thought made his heart thump in his chest and his cock surge with delighted lust. He may have gripped Gimli too hard because he was sure he heard the dwarf squeak a little.

'And I am glad for once that you are taking the easy road with Gandalf, guarding the horses no doubt!' Gimli landed firmly on his own two feet and stamped, encouraging the blood to flow back into his numb feet for it was very cold in the city. 'A suitable task for one of your strength and talent, Legolas.' He grumbled under his breath about horses, fished about in his pocket and gave Arod an apple core he had been saving.

Arod crunched the apple as Legolas sild from his back while around them, the other Men were dismounting too and looking about the empty, silent city. Arod's warm brown eyes watching the dwarf with interest and when there were no more apples, he dropped his nose to the ground and snuffled through the white ash to seek the weeds that grew through the broken and cracked paving. But there was no grass and the weeds were poisonous and stained yellow with sulphur.

'Laindir, bring your troop and come with me and Avorn, set a guard for the horses. Saelion, take some men and spread out and check this immediate area for orcs and goblins. Kill anything you find unless it be a Man.' Imrahil's men began to split up as he directed, some gathering the horses and others looking towards the Men Imrahil named. Legolas looked towards Gandalf who stood looking up at the Keep.

'Come, Legolas. I need your eyes and ears.' The Wizard shucked up his white robes over one arm and rapped his staff on the ground as if testing how solid the earth was. 'I want to know what is here, if anything.' He was very still for a moment, his head turned towards the tall Keep that towered over them as if he were listening for something that no one else could hear.

Along the sides of the road that led into the Keep there were all sorts of detritus, broken wagons and several discarded battering rams. A siege engine lay on its side, the wood splintered and beneath it lay some grisly oxen type creature that had been pulling the siege engine when it toppled. Legolas tried not to look too closely for flies clustered over its eyes and mouth and crawled over its muzzle.

Gandalf did not pause and looked neither right nor left but strode purposefully into the keep. Legolas followed, his bow loosely strung and in his hand. The five Men directed to go with them strung out a little behind them as they entered the Keep.

The entrance was a huge archway that had been carelessly and clumsily enlarged it seemed; the stone had been hacked out but Legolas could just make out the outline in places of a stylised tree and above the entrance were the remains of seven delicately carved stars. Orcs had defaced them; he could see where they had hacked off the points leaving gouges from chisels in the centres.

Within, there was a rank stench of old blood and rotting meat. One of the Men gagged. Legolas could not blame him for the sickly, slightly sweet stink of carrion coated the back of his throat, like oil, and he covered his nose and mouth with his arm. Flies rose up in an angry buzz at their entrance, fiercely, thickly crowding them as they passed into the darkened keep.

'This is an evil place,' muttered one Man. 'I would rather not go any further in if I had a choice.'

'It seems we do not,' another replied a little more brightly and he flashed a smile at Legolas as they passed into the gloom side by side.

The voices of Imrahil's troop faded behind them and Legolas could no longer hear Gimli's deep rumble. He suddenly felt unearthed, adrift for a moment like he was no longer corporeal and he threw out a hand to catch at the wall as they passed into the high hall. Above, a vaulted roof arced vertiginously above them into the darkness and before them was a deep, gaping pit. A stone causeway ran across the pit and into the darkened hall. He could not see where it led until

Gandalf lifted his staff and a soft glow illuminated the way that reminded Legolas of Moria.

Huge iron chains had been driven into the thick stone walls, too heavy for any Man or Elf to lift. Attached to the chains were iron collars. This was where the Nazgûl had kept their winged beasts. Heaped in piles in the pit was offal and carrion that seemed to move and shift but Legolas saw it was black flies that crawled thickly over the bloody gore. The air stank of old blood.

'I cannot go on,' said the Man who had already muttered his fear. His eyes were wide and panicked and Legolas could not blame him.

But the second Man gripped his arm and turned to look at him. 'You have seen worse than this, Arduin. And survived. Come now. This is nothing but a stink and can survive that too.'

The Man called Arduin stared at his friend for a moment and then nodded. 'Where you go, I go,' he said softly and Legolas looked away, a slight smile curving his lips.

Gandalf's footsteps rang on the stone causeway, echoed loudly in the cavernous halls. The glow from Gandalf's staff was faint and Legolas was glad; he did not want to see what else was in this tower of old bones and bloody meat, for the smell was enough. He did not want to know what the fell beasts had been fed. He hoped, prayed that there would be no sound from the pits. He did not think he could bear that, and found that he had strung his bow without thinking and an arrow notched. It reminded him horribly of Phellanthir, that old abandoned city in Eregion where the Nazgûl had attacked Legolas and where Rhawion had lost his life.

Ahead, the stones seemed to glow dimly green and he was reminded of the green light he alone had seen as they approached Minas Morgul. But this was nothing more sinister than phosphorescence it seemed. At the end of the causeway was an arch and a flight of shallow stone steps led in a wide sweep upwards. Limestone, Legolas recognised as he set foot upon the steps. There was a sudden dislocated lurch in his mind for Thranduil's stronghold was delved in limestone, and he could not help but imagine the caverns of his home devastated by Orcs and goblins; the green tree-light of the Wood twisted into this sickly phosphorescence that coated the walls of the ancient keep like the blood and offal coated the floor. Yellow smoke billowing through the Woods, a body impaled, hanging heavily from a lance…The world tilted and he threw out a hand to catch himself on the limestone wall. It was damp under his hand, like sweating skin.

'Legolas?'

He blinked and shook himself. That was the second time in as many minutes. Gandalf had paused on the stairs above and was looking back at him with concern. 'What do you feel?'

'I…'He shook his head. 'Nothing. Just a fancy, nothing more. I thought…I was thinking of home.'

Gandalf nodded once, and his blue eyes gleamed eerily in the light of his staff. Then he turned and climbed upwards once more and the five Men and one Elf followed behind.

The stair case led upwards and suddenly opened onto a wide landing, and tall windows looked out across the valley. A wasteland stretched before them and what he had first thought were small hillocks were slag heaps and the ground was pitted with deep holes, pocked carelessly with open cast mines. The second Man who had comforted Arduin came and stood beside Legolas, looking down onto the abandoned machines, wooden scaffolding and chains, iron buckets, great spikes and drills littered about with no thought.

'What do you think they did, those machines?' he asked but Legolas did not know.

'Gimli would know,' he said. 'And if he did not, he would work out their functions.' Neither mentioned the cages that swung creaking from long poles or the bundled rags within. Far below he could see the horses and guards left by Imrahil. Arod was standing desolately amongst the ruins.

'Two of you take this floor,' Gandalf told them. 'There is enough daylight that you can see if there is anything worth recovering. Anything that looks like it might be useful,' he said cryptically. 'Just tell me when I come back down. I will check if it is worth recovering.'

He beckoned to the three remaining Men. 'You will take the next floor and Legolas and I will explore the upper floors,' he said practically and the Men nodded and set off across the pale, worn stone.

Arches opened one after another, leading to different chambers on each floor and the wide stone staircase wound upwards, growing colder, and even more silent.

0o0o

On the third floor, Gandalf sighed and looked out of the tall window before them. 'There were docks over to the South and ships brought spices and silks from the East, wine and wheat from the West. All kings sent their embassies here and paid tribute to Isildur. It was the capital of Gondor in truth, Tower of the Moon and fairest. Its courts and garden seemed filled with moonlight. Minas Tirith was Minas Arnor, Tower of the Sun. That is all that remains of the curtain wall.' He pointed to a crumbling line of stones. 'There was great treasure here too. A palantir.' he turned his bright blue eyes upon Legolas. 'We need to see if it is still here, Legolas. It belongs to Aragorn and I would not have it fall into another's hands.'

Cold brushed over Legolas' scalp, his neck and his fingertips jangled.

He turned suddenly, peering into the darkness and shadows. Did the darkness ripple? Tremble slightly? There, a slither of scales over stone?

He felt a shudder of revulsion crawl down his spine and all the hairs on his neck spiked.

 _If it is the Nazgûl, it is only fear,_ he told himself. But Rhawion's death still haunted him, still nibbled on the edges of his consciousness and he could not shake off the thought that there was a more horrible fate than death and the Dark God of Mandos.

Gandalf had disappeared into the gloom, the soft glow of his staff swallowed up in the darkness and for a moment, Legolas was on his own.

He stared into the darkness that gaped ahead of him, the arches that opened one after another suddenly seemed yawning mouths, filled with shadows that slid and coalesced in the weak light from Gandalf's staff bobbing in and out of the archways as the Wizard drew further away. Legolas watched the light for a moment and then looked again into the darkness that softly crept back.

No, he told himself. It is merely dark. There is no tremor, no pricking of his thumbs.

A slide of something on the cold stone. A flutter in the freezing wind that fingered his cheek, stroked down his neck.

He stared wide-eyed into the dark. 'Gandalf?' he whispered.

But there was no sound. Not even a soft footfall. The light from Gandalf's staff seemed very far away.

He found his knuckles clenched white on his bow and the arrow already drawn. His mouth was slightly open and he breathed quickly, feeling his muscles tensed, bunch under him.

A ripple across the darkness, it trembled like a thin black robe, fluttered like a bird's wing…Legolas found his breath coming in short, quick gasps and the cold stole down his neck, his spine, fingered his nipples so they pebbled hard. He stepped back and found the edge of the stone window against the backs of his thighs.

'Gandalf!' he whispered, more urgently. 'Gandalf!'

And suddenly there was the sound of footsteps, impatient, clipped, and first the light from his staff and then the Wizard himself appeared, his eyebrows drawn and his eyes piercing.

'What is it?' He blew softly upon his staff and the light burned more brightly, should have chased away the shadows but instead it merely illuminated a smaller hall and upon the walls were grisly tokens, skulls, and iron cages hung from the ceiling. Bones huddled within. And shadows lingered in the corners where the light did not reach.

Gandalf looked more closely at Legolas' white face and his eyes softened. 'Come child, I forget that you have not really recovered yet. Perhaps I should not have brought you here,' he mumbled half to himself. 'The feel of the Nazgûl lingers, it is true. And they touched you.' He nodded to himself and looked again at Legolas. Then very slowly he reached out and touched Legolas on the cheek; instantly a warmth spread from the touch and spread through the elf's veins and nerves and he felt the Song.

'Fear was ever their greatest weapon,' Gandalf said gently and then his face grew more serious. 'But it was not their only weapon. I need to make sure that all they had has gone into the Dark with them.'

'Forgive me,' Legolas said, feeling foolish. 'I let the sense of this place overwhelm me.'

Gandalf did not speak but nodded sagely and turned towards the sweep of the staircase, that curled slowly upwards like the coils of a serpent and as cold.

Legolas followed him up the next flight of wide stone steps and there, a high and graceful arch led into the dim-lit hall. Here the stone had once been carved and elegantly ornate but orcish hands had brutalised any loveliness that might once have been. The faces had been knocked off or chiselled in parodies of themselves, made ugly by gashes instead of mouth and the eyes had been clumsily hacked away. Yet the proportions of the chambers were elegant and one opened up one after another and another.

'The top floor used to rotate,' Gandalf said almost to himself as he looked around the empty and silent chambers.

From the walls, thin tattered banners still hung like the skeletal leaves of winter and long windows of shattered glass pitted the walls at equal distance, seven in total. Legolas could see that each opened onto a narrow iron balustrade that circled the whole tower. If he had dared step onto it, he could have walked the entire circle of the tower but in places the iron balustrade had pulled away from the stone walls and hung precariously. It could not have borne even an elf for long without tearing away from the wall and plunging far below.

 _There is no way out_ , he thought, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen. He put his hand on the stone to steady himself as he leaned out of the window to see the city below but now they were very high and looking up he saw that they had reached the top floor. Far, far below he could see Elladan's troop. They clambered over fallen masonry and rocks, scurried about - too far away to hear if he cried out to them. Too far away to help.

He looked back towards the doorway in panic, and saw the reassuring glow from Gandalf's staff. It seemed to glow more brightly as he looked and he felt that same warmth and soothing hope as before. His heartbeat slowed and his breathing settled.

 _There is nothing here,_ he told himself sternly. _They are all gone into the Dark_.

Between the arches, the stone and marble still finely sculpted and undamaged by orcs, Legolas could see a tall plinth in the centre of a room beyond. Something rested on the plinth, covered by a dark veil. Then Gandalf moved in front of the plinth and Legolas' view was obscured so he turned and walked carefully between the dusty and cobwebbed arches, looking into the shadows and through the doorways in the dim half light that seemed more twilight than midday.

A light seemed to flash dimly from another chamber and he turned his head to look.

In a far-off corner, there was a faded and dim mirror. It was taller than Legolas himself, and wide. Its surface seemed tarnished but as he drew close, he saw that the surface was coated in something. Copper perhaps? A slightly greenish light reflected from it and the frame, he saw, was old bronze, etched in the stylised manner of Imladris. It was some elvish artefact then, he thought. He leaned towards it, catching his own reflection in the mirror for a moment.

There was a flash as the light glanced over the surface of the mirror. For a moment, it seemed a ghoulish face appeared briefly and then vanished, as if something had peered briefly through the mirror from the other side.

Legolas stumbled back with a cry. But when he stared again at the mirror, there was only his own face, the strange half-light made his skin pallid and ghostly. Like a ghoul. Like a wraith.

He stared into his own pale face that trembled in the mirror. Behind him, the shadows drew close and he turned suddenly. But there was nothing behind him.

He turned back. His face looked different; drawn and thin, his eyes bigger and his hair was flat against his skull…

 _I look ill,_ he thought. _It is because I am still recovering…_

Distant sparks flared in the depths of the mirror and again, he turned, startled and fear crept into his heart. But there was nothing there- behind him, the empty chambers were still and silent. Twilight lay heavily across the stone floors and he was suddenly aware that the light was going. He did not want to be here in the dark.

Nervously, he stepped away from the mirror and hurried back to where Gandalf was lifting a dark orb from the plinth. It was a Palantir. Legolas glanced at Gandalf as he stuffed it unceremoniously into a satchel slung at his side and tapped his staff on the stone floor.

'Good! We have what we came for,' Gandalf said briskly. 'Now, let us leave this forsaken place.'

'Did you know there is a mirror?' Legolas asked, glancing over his shoulder as they walked back through the arches and came to the wide steps. 'I do not know if it is important but I cannot think why a ghoul would keep such a thing when all else has been destroyed.'

Gandalf froze. He turned so slowly and with such an expression on his face that Legolas was afraid.

'A mirror?'

Legolas stopped. 'Yes,' he said slowly. 'It was through there…' He pointed away through the crumbled arches and old stone. 'It is very ancient, but just a mirror.' But even as he spoke, he remembered the way a ghoulish face had seemed to peer at him from the other side. '

Gandalf pulled back on Legolas' arm as he made to show Gandalf. 'No, just tell me.'

'Through there,' Legolas said, suddenly nervous. He watched Gandalf breathe deeply and his grip on his staff tightened. 'Gandalf?'

'Come,' said Gandalf, suddenly brisk. 'Let us leave this forsaken place.' He pushed Legolas in front of him and went swiftly down the steps. 'I'd like to be out of here before nightfall and so, I should imagine, do you.'

Legolas quickened his pace, trepidation crept over him until he was almost running down the steps as if they were pursued, and though Gandalf hurried, he did not run as Legolas did. Soon Legolas was a little way ahead of Gandalf and forced himself to pause to wait for the Wizard.

As soon as he stopped, a cold wind blew from behind, caught up in Legolas' hair and he imagined it was like skeletal hands grasping at him. Suddenly he was back in that place, on the cold mountainside in the rain, with the Nazgûl pursuing him, running through the rain and thunder, the gleam of lightning on their swords as they surrounded him and pressed the cold, cold blades into his flesh.

His heart pounded as he dared not wait but almost burst onto the landing below and cast a quick glance behind him, past Gandalf, up the long wide stairs.

There was nothing.

The dim sunlight shone through the dust that hung in the air. Undisturbed. Still.

Gandalf descended the stair quickly but not hurried and looked at Legolas warily.

Not a sound came from above where the mirror stood in an empty chamber. No scrape of steel or whisper of a thin black shroud. There was only the wind and there was nothing more sinister than it was cold.

Legolas stared back up the staircase as it wound and coiled away into dim twilight and darkness.

'Come, Thranduillion,' Gandalf said briskly. 'Legolas.'

Legolas turned back to Gandalf. He blinked slowly. 'There is nothing there,' he said with utmost relief. 'Nothing.'

Gandalf paused for a moment, looking intently at Legolas. Then he smiled very gently. 'Not now. They have gone into the Dark,' the Wizard said quietly. He patted Legolas' shoulder quite kindly. 'There is nothing to fear now. But their presence fills this place still and it is no wonder you feel it.'

Legolas looked up into the Wizard's face; a white light streamed from his brilliant raiment, long silver-white hair flowed around him and down his back, straight, very long, smooth, his face was not quite human, beyond beautiful, too ethereal. Not Gandalf. Ólorin. He had seen Gandalf as Ólorin before, but only in dreams or through the miasma of poison. Now he gazed up in wonder and felt like he had stepped out of time, out of place and light enveloped him. Legolas smiled and Ólorin smiled back; his eyes though were piercing blue and were utterly Gandalf. The apparition faded and there was Gandalf again.

Legolas felt the light recede and stood blinking and feeling foolish and loved and overwhelmed all at the same time.

'The Nazgûl are no more,' Gandalf said. 'They have gone.' He smiled. 'Now. Let us leave this place.'

0o0o

tbc

Next chapter almost done.


	3. Chapter 3 The Artefact

Chapter 3: The Artefact

Gimli had his small travelling hammer and chisel in his hand and was carving a piece of granite he had picked up whilst scrambling around the rocks after Elladan. Slowly the smooth shape emerged beneath his hand from the rough grit of the rock. Every now and again he glanced up towards the Keep, for Gandalf and Legolas' small group were still within and the other Men had returned about an hour ago.

Ah, there they were. Gimli nodded to himself; two Men emerged, one clasping the other by the arm as if he leaned upon the other's strength. Gimli let the hammer and chisel still and fixed his gaze upon the entrance of the Keep. The other three Men emerged then, struggling to carry something between them, a white cloak was cast over whatever it was. But no Wizard. And certainly no elf.

Gimli rose to his feet. He noticed Elladan had come to stand beside him as the five Men walked over the causeway that led from the Keep. The white-cloaked object they carried between them was at least the size of a tall man, Gimli noted, but there was no way of telling what it was.

And then Legolas emerged, and Gandalf.

Gimli breathed and settled back down on the crumbling wall, took out his hammer and chisel and went back to crafting the stone into what was hidden within. He kept one eye on the causeway and watched the five Men handle whatever it was with delicacy and concern. They carried it into the camp where they carefully set it upright and leaned it gently against the crumbling stone wall. Here they paused and talked together, one of them glancing over to Gandalf every now and again as if waiting for a sign, while the first two Men scrambled over the stone wall, although not in haste or fear. One stood upright on the top of the wall, looking beyond. Then he cupped his hand called to his companion, pointing at something.

Gandalf stood at a distance and watched as the two disappeared over the ruined wall to some place that could not be seen from the dwarf's vantage point. Gimli saw that Legolas came to stand beside the Wizard, but even from here, Gimli could see the stiffness of Legolas' stance, arms crossed over his chest and his bow clasped to his chest. Legolas bent his head towards Gandalf and murmured something and the Wizard nodded once and glanced towards the white-covered object.

Beside Gimli, Elladan took a step forward and was staring after the Men who stood in a small group around their burden, now resting against the wall. Elladan muttered something that Gimli could not hear. The dwarf did not ask either, for at that moment, Legolas turned his head and catching sight of Gimli, lifted his hand in greeting. Gimli nodded seriously in return and then bent his head to his carving. Now that he had seen his friend's return, he was no longer concerned, in spite of Elladan's presence, coiled and tense beside him.

Suddenly Elladan muttered something that sounded like a curse, and then quite abruptly, left Gimli's side to stride down the broken road towards Gandalf, except he did not keep to the road but leapt swift and sure-footed over crumbled walls and piles of stones at the side of the road in his haste to reach Gandalf it seemed. As Elladan drew closer, Legolas turned towards him but Elladan barely glanced at Legolas, all his intent upon Gandalf. At first, Legolas merely watched but even where he was, Gimli heard Elladan hail Gandalf and his tone was accusing and hostile. At that, Legolas moved very slightly so that Elladan came to stand beside Legolas rather than Gandalf and the two had to speak across Legolas in low hurried voices. Legolas listened, his head tilted slightly to one side.

Gimli raised his head, the stone and tools lay still in his hands. He watched attentively now as Gandalf lay a cautioning hand on Elladan's arm and spoke quietly. Elladan listened for a moment but after a moment, Legolas stepped back, eyes fixed upon the Wizard. But that was nothing compared with Elladan's reaction. He pulled away from Gandalf in horror, like he'd been bitten, and from here, Gimli could see him remonstrating with the Wizard with increasing agitation and Gandalf responding in the short, clipped tones that meant he was very angry. At one point he even rapped his staff upon the stone road impatiently. Elladan threw a furious look at Gandalf and then stalked away. Leaping quickly from the causeway to the road and over the crumbling walls, he passed Gimli without a word. The dwarf looked back down at his carving appraisingly. And waited for Legolas.

He did not have to wait for long.

He was aware of the elf settling beside him, peering over his shoulder at the carving. 'What is it that you carve?' Legolas asked and Gimli shrugged for it was not clear yet what shape intended to emerge. '

What was all that about?' he asked nonchalantly in turn.

'Elladan is angry with Gandalf for bringing an artefact out of the tower,' Legolas said matter-of-factly. But there was something in his voice that only Gimli would detect; the slightest breathiness, a tremble in the firmness of his voice?

Gimli blew on the carving. Dust clouded in the wake of his breath. 'That seems a little hasty.'

'It is a mirror.'

Gimli frowned. 'A mirror? So yon ghouls were a little vain you think?' he wondered aloud.

But Legolas did not laugh. He was watching Elladan, who stood a little distance away, standing high up on a crumbled wall, looking back towards Gandalf.

'There was a Palantir as well. Gandalf has that. He said he was taking it for Aragorn but he did not say the same of the mirror…He says that we must not leave artefacts lying around for anyone to find.'

'Hmm.' Gimli grunted. 'That seems sensible.'

'Elladan does not agree,' Legolas said slowly. 'He asked Gandalf if the mirror was akin to the one in Phellanthir.' There was a pause. 'I did not see a mirror in Phellanthir.'

Gimli paused in his carving and looked up. 'Phellanthir?' The name itself conjured dreadful images; the Tower crashing down upon them, stones hurled after them as they fled, and the river surging and washing over the marshland in a tidal wave after the seizures of the earth at the tower's fall. And Glorfindel emerging from the dust, half carrying Legolas, and Rhawion's lifeless body in his arms. 'I did not go into the Tower as you know,' Gimli said. 'And I am glad I did not. And I am glad too that I did not have to go in there either.' He nodded his head towards the Keep. 'And even gladder that you are out of there and here where I can keep an eye on you.'

Legolas smiled slightly. 'Elladan seems to think this mirror is dangerous.'

'A dangerous mirror?' Gimli said practically. 'Perhaps it is very unflattering, makes you look like a ghoul.'

Legolas looked at him sharply. He said nothing but his mouth was a thin line and Gimli found that unexpectedly disturbing.

'I will groom Arod,' Legolas said abruptly and Gimli frowned at the sudden change from confidential to practical, but he knew Legolas well enough now to not question him and let him go to the horse, which looked up in delight and blew in Legolas' hair. Gimli glanced back down to the stone in his hand, thinking how Legolas had done the same after the fight with Elrohir all that time ago on the quay at Lindir. He flicked a quick glance up to where Legolas had begun brushing Arod in long, hard strokes that the silly beast loved and leaned into, his eyes half closed and lower lip slack. Legolas' face was intent, closed.

Gimli sighed and weighed the chisel in his hand. It was too light really for stone. But only a travel tool and it had served him well. He thought about what Legolas had said; it seemed then that Elladan had seen a mirror in Phellanthir. But that did not mean anything really. He squinted along the line of the granite, gauging where to cut next, and carefully chipped away one flake of stone. He wondered why the Nazgûl had a looking glass in the first place and imagined the Nazgûl standing in front of it in the way folk did and wondering - is my shroud hanging right? Is black a good colour for me?

He amused himself in this way for a little while as he carved. Much more worrying however, Gimli thought as he gently teased out a sliver of stone to be the beginning of an eye, was the Palantir. Aragorn already had one of those and it had caused nothing but trouble. But they could not leave it lying around for anyone to find and it was better that Aragorn had it.

Now Imrahil's Men were harnessing two horses to a cart they had salvaged and the mirror was being loaded into it. Legolas had ceased grooming Arod and straightened to watch them.

The dwarf blew on the stone and held it up to the light so he could see where to line his chisel next. He glanced over to where Elladan stood watching, his spine ramrod straight and bristling with unspent energy, thought Gimli.

Carefully, Gimli stowed his small hammer and chisel away in the loose heel of his boot where he kept such useful items and clipped the heel back into place. He folded the small piece of stone in a soft cloth and shoved it into a deep pocket. Then he brushed his hands off and stood beside Legolas, watching as the mirror was loaded onto the cart. One of the Men stood, holding the horses' reins and two were carefully securing the mirror with leather straps and ropes.

'Gandalf says that Elladan, Gandalf and I must ride on ahead and warn Aragorn of what we have found,' Legolas said suddenly, He made an impatient gesture with his hand. 'He is hiding something.' Legolas looked over towards the Wizard as he spoke, his eyes distant. 'Why does he cover the mirror with his cloak? And why must we ride on ahead? Not you, Gimli. Just Gandalf, Elladan and me. He has that Palantir but takes no such care with that.'

Gimli humphed and crossed his arms over his broad chest. 'And what is Elladan's problem with it? What about the other mirror in Phellanthir?' he asked, narrowing his eyes and watching the son of Elrond.

Legolas's mouth twisted a little and he cast his gaze downwards. 'He accuses Gandalf of being reckless.' Legolas shook his head. 'I felt something up there, Gimli. I thought it was just the lingering sense of the Nazgûl…but now…hearing Elladan, I wonder if there is more.'

They stood side by side as the last ropes and straps tying the mirror onto the wagon were secured. Elladan stood beyond the edges of the troop of Men, watching. But his hand gripped the hilt of his sword and the other was jammed into his belt as if he needed to restrain himself. He fixed his gaze upon the Keep and did not look at the wagon where the mirror was.

Gimli pursed his lips and contemplated the sky. 'I think I will trust Gandalf in this,' he said thoughtfully. 'He has been right about most things so far. Not all,' he countered himself, 'but most. I think I will ask him about what this mirror is and why he believes he cannot leave it or break it.'

'He will not tell you,' Legolas said slowly. Gimli glanced up at him.

Arod snuffed lightly in Gimli's hair. Almost automatically, the dwarf searched his pockets. His blunt, clever fingers found a small piece of forgotten carrot in amongst the dust and cotton gathering in his deepest pocket. Absently he gave it to the horse who crunched contentedly.

Gimli stared ahead; clearly Legolas had already asked and met silence from the Wizard.

Phellanthir. The very name was unwelcome. Gimli remembered how distraught the elf had been over Rhawion's death. None of them wanted a repeat of that and Gimli resolved to keep watch upon his friend.

Legolas shifted slightly beside him. 'All Gandalf would say is that if the Nazgûl deemed it important enough to keep,' he said quietly, 'then it has some value to them and should not be left here for anyone else to find.'

'Very well. But don't look into it, Legolas,' Gimli cautioned. 'You never know. And I cannot imagine that all it does is make you look a bit ghoulish.'

At that, Legolas seemed to jerk slightly as if startled and he stepped away. 'I am going to talk to Elladan,' he said and Gimli roused himself.

'Well I'm coming with you!' he said.

0o0o0

Aragorn sighed and pulled a beautifully drawn map towards himself, pristine and crisp; it was newly delivered from one of the many lords of Gondor whose name he could not remember. Aragorn sat on an ornately carved chair at a desk that was heavy and decorative enough for a banqueting hall rather than a tent in the middle of the Field of Cormallen.

He had let the flap of the tent fall closed to give himself a little privacy because he found people kept looking in to see the King Returned and he had finally grown tired of it and felt a little over-exposed. But he supposed that this was what it was going to be like from now on.

'The King does not wish to be disturbed my lord.' His guards muted voices came from outside. Something else he was going to have to get used to; having guards.

'He will wish to see me.' Low and insistent. Irritated. Aragorn smiled; Elrohir of course.

'I am sorry my lord. He has said no one.' The guard's voice was anxious and Aragorn wondered how long the Man could keep up his resistance in the face of Aragorn's brother.

'He will see me.' The voice repeated, more loudly. More insistent. Definitely more irritated.

Aragorn smiled as the tent door flapped aside and Elrohir limped slowly in, still leaning on the cane that someone had quickly made for him, but he was not the only one who had needed such. The veins stood out on his hands where he clutched the cane so Aragorn, ever the healer, knew he was still in pain.

'Here, let me…' He hurried over to pull out a chair for Elrohir but the scowl and slight shake of his head stopped Aragorn. The King Returned sighed, exasperated that he was surrounded by stoical warriors who would not let him help.

'Is there any news?' Elrohir asked shortly.

Silently and only to himself, Aragorn admitted that he would not be allowed the assist his injured brother, and sat down. He watched while Elrohir stubbornly struggled one handed with the heavy chair that got caught on the thick and opulent rugs that had been spread lavishly over the grass so the King Returned had something warm to meet his toes first thing in the morning. Elrohir let out an expletive that, had Gimli been in the room, would have shocked the dwarf, not only that Elrohir was so fluent in Khuzdul but that his language was so colourful.

'I asked for news,' Elrohir barked, tugging irritably at the chair until it suddenly moved and he could collapse into it.

'News?' Aragorn quirked an eyebrow. 'There is always news. What sort of news?'

'You know what news,' Elrohir snapped. He dropped the cane then and it fell with a thud onto the thick rugs. This time, instead of cursing, he exhaled quietly and let his head drop.

Aragorn was instantly at his side. 'I wish you would let me help,' he said softly, setting the cane near Elrohir's trembling hand.

Elrohir sighed. 'Forgive me,' he murmured. 'I have good days and bad days…The bad days are very bad.'

'This is one,' Aragorn said, less of a question than a statement.

Elrohir nodded. 'It would help if I knew where they were, how they are,' he said and Aragorn knew he meant Elladan of course, but also Legolas. Aragorn still marvelled that the two seemed to have found such deep and tender closeness; he was not yet ready to call it love because it was so new and Legolas was… well, he had not exactly been celibate during the quest for Aragorn knew of at least three lovers Legolas had had since he had turned up in imladris that rainy afternoon.

Aragorn poured water into a glass goblet for Elrohir and mused that in fact, Legolas had been quite happy to take every opportunity to be anything but celibate. And so Elrohir might be just one more notch on the Wood elf's knife. Aragorn was unhappy about that. Elrohir was so vulnerable, wounded. If he was merely some plaything of Legolas' to while away the time, it would hurt Elrohir beyond his capacity to heal. He sighed heavily and then looked up to find his brother's grey eyes fixed upon him, a wry smile upon his full lips as if he heard every word of those thoughts.

'I know what you think, Estel, but that is not how it is. I am neither so fragile nor is Legolas so fickle.' He smiled and Aragorn, so used to the suppressed violence in Elrohir, marvelled at the softness in his eyes…and then he was afraid again, for he did not think Legolas so easily won, though he loved his mercurial friend and owed him his life many times over.

"Tell me any news,' Elrohir said, more gently. His tall frame looked odd bent into a mannish chair, for Elrohir was over a head taller than any lord of Gondor. He looked cramped and uncomfortable and Aragorn made a note to commission a carpenter to make new chairs, higher tables, to accommodate his family. Friends too, he added mentally, thinking of Legolas, as tall as Elrohir but more wiry. And Gimli and the hobbits, for he would not give them chairs for a child. He mused to himself, unaware of Elrohir's eyes upon him, and the slight smile on his lips as if he knew where Aragorn's thoughts took him.

Upon the lavish inlaid and decorated table were a number of scrolls. One was uncurled and Aragorn reached out to it. It was neatly scribed in Gimli's careful hand and meticulously detailed.

'They have scoured Minas Morgul,' Aragorn said. 'Most of the Orcs and goblins have already abandoned it but there were some Men who resisted them. Gimli says they have taken the city though and it is now ours, though he complains I have not given them enough men to leave there or to hold it for long.' He sighed. 'I am loathe to send men out to Mordor when we have only just returned. It is a grim post and will wear upon their hearts.'

Elrohir grunted and shifted uncomfortably. 'Send those who did not go to Mordor then. They are desperate to win acclaim and redeem their honour in the eyes of the city. It is a task not beyond them. Find a good commander though, one who will keep them strong.' His hand clenched the arm of the chair and Aragorn saw how he gritted his teeth. 'Even better, raze it to the ground so that no evil can return there.'

"I have a message too from Gandalf that asks for a smooth running wagon and some skilled men.' He frowned, perplexed. 'There may be some things that he has found that he would not leave there, or some treasures perhaps, plundered from Gondor.'

'Of course,' Elrohir said, leaning heavily upon the arms of the chair and shifting uncomfortably. 'Minas Ithil was a beautiful city. Its spires reminded me of tales of Gondolin, and the bells used to ring through that valley, echo from the mountains. When the moon shone upon the walls, it was indeed white and silver. And there was great wealth too.'

His grey eyes were unfocused for a moment and Aragorn knew that he was remembering with elven clarity, every detail, every sound, the faces of those he met and knew well.

'It is a place of great evil now,' Elrohir said slowly. His face grew troubled then. 'I wish Legolas had not gone, nor Elladan.' He looked away. 'They are not in danger, but I feel it is there nonetheless.'

0o0o

TBC


	4. Chapter 4 Memories of Phellanthir

I really should say as well that although he does not appear in these first chapters, Tindómion is Spiced Wine's invention and I thank her for letting me use him.

* The memory of Phellanthir is from Through a Glass Darkly and this is as much a sequel to that fic as it is Sons of Thunder. In Glass, Glorfindel and Erestor find a mirror made by Celebrimbor. It is a Door to the Eternal Dark and when Glorfindel reaches it, a Balrog comes. Elladan is wounded by a morgul blade and he and Elrohir are trapped by the Nazgûl. In trying to bargain with Angmar for Elladan's life, Elrohir allows Angmar to plunder his thoughts and memories- including those of finding his mother- and which Angmar corrupts, he also exacerbates Elrohir's unacknowledged lust/desire for Legolas and gives him those violent images that plague him all through Sons of Thunder.

Warnings for this chapter: slash. Explicit.

Chapter 4: Memories

Elrohir dropped swabs and bandages on the bed, a bowl of hot water was on the floor. He let himself half sit half fall on to the edge of the bed and took a breath. His leg throbbed in pain. Carefully he unwound the soiled bandages and peered at the wound. It was healing. The skin was pink at the edges and shiny where it had grown anew. He sat on the edge of the bed, face contorted in pain, clutching at his wound and swabbing hot water over it. Clenching his teeth, he held the cloth over the wound, letting the water wash through, the heat burn away any bacteria.

He thought determinedly of Legolas while he scrubbed at the wound, punishing himself for his evil, purging himself of his wickedness. Four days since Legolas and Elladan had ridden out. Four days of unease and premonition. Of the deep sense of danger. He was ready to saddle Barakhir and ride to Minas Morgul himself to meet them in spite of the frequent messengers and Gimli's cheerfully practical letters to Aragorn. There were none from Legolas.

Suddenly his longing for Legolas was so intense he almost heard the light dance of green-gold notes drift on the breeze and he looked up almost expecting that beloved voice full of softened consonants and long lilting vowels, singing irreverently, the gleam of lust and long green eyes that slid a gaze towards him full of suggestion and desire, generous mouth promising seduction…

There was a light scuff of boots outside his tent and suddenly the tent flap opened. Sunlight poured through and around a dim shape but he would know that tall, lean figure even in the Eternal Dark.

Legolas.

'Are you really here? Not just conjured by my fevered imagination?" He lurched to his feet and then clutched the edge of the bed in agony. He could not stifle the cry that tore from his lips and instantly Legolas was at his side, kneeling beside him and carefully lowering him to the bed.

'Please, Elrohir. Let Elladan or Aragorn attend you. Look at the pain you are in!'

'I do not want you to see me like this,' Elrohir ground between his teeth but he could not conceal it and blew out, raising his eyes upwards as he leaned back onto the bed and allowed Legolas to fuss. 'And before you say it, I have let Aragorn attend me, as you say. I am not a fool to let a wound fester. It is just taking longer and needs more time…And I do not want to give it. I want to be healed!' he said in exasperation.

Legolas smiled. 'I know. I too have endured and even now, I am not fully recovered,' he admitted with a wry smile. 'I feel the…taint of the Black Web still and it lingers in my dreams.' He looked up at Elrohir with an earnest eyes. 'Neither of us are yet whole.'

Elrohir's pain was forgotten and he looked at Legolas with anxious concern. 'You still feel this?' he asked. His voice was soft and he gazed at Legolas, looked his fill, his heart filled with adoration. 'I would give you all my strength to make you whole!' he said earnestly.'

Legolas shook his head and laughed softly. 'Foolish Noldor,' he said fondly and caressed Elrohir, stroked his hand over his long, night-silk hair, cupped his cheek and drew him close. Elrohir felt the crackle of his desire, his absolute love fill him, swell in his heart and chest until he thought he might burst.

He leaned towards Legolas and pressed his lips against Legolas' mouth. The kiss was like a long drink of water in a desert, torrential rain in a parched land. Elrohir pulled Legolas towards him but his beloved did not fall onto the bed with him; instead he pulled back and looked at Elrohir sternly.

'Those bandages, that wound first,' he said firmly. 'We will get you sorted first and then…' He let his hand drift over Elrohir's straining crotch with a wicked smile. 'Then we will attend to other matters.'

Smiling, Elrohir conceded and leaned back on his elbows to watch. Legolas was looking at the wound with a critical eye and a faint grimace that made Elrohir want to cover it and hide from Legolas' disgust. His hand twitched in reaction, going to cover it but Legolas tutted and pushed him away.

'You think this is the worst I have seen? Is it painful? It should have thought it more healed by now but you keep overdoing it.' He glanced up at Elrohir's pensive face and grinned. 'I will have to be gentle with you.'

Elrohir closed his eyes and sighed for he did not want gentleness. No. He wanted fire and passion and for Legolas to pound him. He felt himself stiffen even more and heard Legolas laugh a little. But then the dressing was against his wound and it stung. He leaned back on his elbows and watched Legolas' quick hands that did not stop even when he could not help but gasp in pain. Legolas was swift and wound the bandage about him, frequently brushing his fingers over Elrohir's straining, bursting cock as if by accident and a small smile played about his lips as he did so. He tied it off and then kneeling before Elrohir, rested his hands upon Elrohir's thighs.

Elrohir's erection strained, felt like it would burst if Legolas did not touch him. He was still leaning back on his elbows and his eyes met Legolas', amorous.

'You are being coy, my beloved,' Legolas said playfully, and bit his lip as he stroked Elrohir's bulging cock. Elrohir thought he would faint with desire. 'Let me see if I can still seduce you,' he said mischievously and reached up, his fingers stroking Elrohir's ear so he fell helpless and swooning against the pillow.

Legolas crawled carefully upon the bed beside him, avoiding Elrohir's leg. He pressed his long, lean body against Elrohir's. 'You are wearing entirely too many clothes,' he said and with his teeth pulled loose the laces tying Elrohir's tunic. Impatiently he tugged them apart and pulled the tunic over Elrohir's head with a flourish. 'Give yourself to me,' he said, nuzzling Elrohir's neck and with his hand, pulling loose the ties of his breeches.

Elrohir reached out and pulled Legolas towards him.

'I have missed you. I love you,' he declared earnestly and Legolas laughed lightly and flicked his cock so his nerves shocked like a lightning strike. 'I love you, I love you,' Elrohir cupped Legolas' sweet and beautiful face and showered kisses upon him. Legolas laughed under them and dived beneath his arms, grasping his cock and balls with one strong, warm hand so that Elrohir arched and cried out.

'I have missed _this,'_ Legolas grinned and knelt up, looking at Elrohir sprawled beneath him and completely undone. 'I love to see you like this.'

Their love-making was quick and hard and burst upon Elrohir like a wave and when it was done, he was sweating and hot. His hair stuck to his face and chest and his skin marked by Legolas' passion, and Legolas the same.

'That's better.' Legolas rose to his feet, naked and glorious enough to make Elrohir's heart burst and his cock surge again with appreciative lust. He watched Legolas pad to a travelling chest upon which stood a jug of wine and two empty glasses. He filled the glasses and turned back to Elrohir, lifted one glass to his lips and drank deeply, unappreciatively of the fineness of the red wine. 'And now…' He raised an eyebrow suggestively and ran his fingers over his own belly and already half-full cock, batted it cheerfully so it bobbed.

'Beautiful, insatiable melethron,' Elrohir murmured.

Legolas handed him a goblet but Elrohir put it in the small table beside the bed for he did not want wine to muddle his thoughts. He marvelled at how close they had become in so short a time and after such conflict between them, and then he thought about what Legolas had said but also what he had not said; _I have missed this,_ he had said, and _I love to see you like this._

He had not said he missed Elrohir. He had not said that he loved Elrohir. Though Elrohir had declared it, and cried it as he came.

But Elrohir would not ask like some needy maiden; he had already decided he had no call upon Legolas. In fact he was so deeply in his debt that should Legolas never return his heart and simply use him until he was bored and throw him away, Elrohir was determined he would not feel betrayed or used or misled, for he owed Legolas more than he could ever repay.

Outside the light had dimmed and twilight was upon them. A blackbird sang heartily somewhere outside, near the river perhaps

Legolas threw himself back onto the bed and leaned against the pillows, one elbow propping him up. His long, lean body was relaxed, his cock thickened and slack against his thigh where the ancient ink and wild colour wound and the dragon peered over his shoulder. Long winter-grass hair gleamed in the firelight, and Legolas' eyes were dipped towards the goblet which he held against his lips now though he did not drink, lost in thought.

Elrohir watched him, watched the firelight stroke the long silk of his pale gold hair and decided he did not care if Legolas had not said he loved him; he showed it in other ways and called him beloved. That would have to be enough.

Legolas did not move, so deep in thought was he and they lay together in silence until Elrohir asked, 'Did you find anything in Minas Morgul?'

Legolas sighed and glanced up, a strangely anxious expression in his eyes. Or was it accusing?

Elrohir blinked. 'I am glad you are back safe,' he said uncertainly, wondering what had changed Legolas' mood so suddenly and what he was thinking that had plunged him into such silence. It made him more hesitant. 'Was the city empty?'

Legolas stared into the wine for a moment and then spoke, slowly. 'It was empty in that it was abandoned. But…it did not _feel_ empty.' He suddenly put the wine down and pushed himself to his feet. 'It is a haunted and evil place as you said. I wish never to go back there.' Restlessly he paced to the tent door and then turned and strode back towards Elrohir, his eyes resolute. 'But it is not Minas Morgul that bothers me,' he said sombrely, looking down at Elrohir. 'It is Phellanthir.'

Elrohir jerked back involuntarily. Phellanthir? The name itself sent a cold dread down his spine. He began to struggle to his feet but Legolas leaned down and grasped Elrohir by the arm.

'Tell me,' he insisted. 'What happened in Phellanthir? I know you were there with Glorfindel.'

Elrohir bit his lip, remembering the moonlight shining on the mudflats that surrounded Phellanthir, Elladan's rasping breath beside him and the horror that crept over him as he knelt on the wet mud before the Witchking, before Angmar.

Legolas was watching him, a knowing look in his long green eyes.

Elrohir steeled himself for it seemed he must bare his soul once more to Legolas to earn forgiveness. 'Very well,' he said heavily. 'In Phellanthir, I did offer myself to Angmar, in return for Elladan. He was wounded by a morgul blade and I could not save him.'

'You have a habit of sacrificing yourself.' Legolas' voice was dry. Amused even. 'For you did that for me too, at least twice….'

Elrohir bowed his head for it was here that Angmar had plundered his thoughts, stoked the wicked and unholy lust Elrohir had for Legolas, the desire for his pain and anguish. He confessed, 'Angmar promised you to me if I gave him the Ring.'

Legolas waved his hand impatiently and tutted. 'I know that,' he said dismissively. 'You told me. Several times in fact and each time it becomes more abject and more detailed. As if you wish to shock me at your vile and bloody fantasy…I know you have dreamed of me,' Legolas said, almost irritated. 'And it has been of violence.'

His voice lowered and his gaze dipped to where his fingers pulled at a loose thread on the sleeve of his tunic. 'But I too have done things I would rather not tell you; I have thought things that I _cannot_ confess…' A sigh escaped his lips. 'I was in the company of the Ring for months and it whispered incessantly of things I should do, could do…' He batted his hand like he would drive away unwanted thoughts. 'I know how the Nazgûl work, Elrohir. I know what they would have shown you, tormented you with.' He raised his head and looked Elrohir in his eyes, held his gaze with such tenderness and compassion, understanding. 'You must release yourself from their clasp now. You must allow yourself to breathe again and stop this torment, this constant need for contrition.' He cupped Elrohir's face gently. 'You have atoned. Over and over and now I want you free.' He pressed a kiss to Elrohir's mouth and pulled him close.

But Elrohir pulled away in shame and slid to the floor in misery only to feel Legolas on his knees beside him, his arms cradling him and murmurs of comfort and concern.

'I am sorry, I am sorry. I did not mean to distress you, my beloved _beloved_ Elrohir. Please do not be distressed…It..it is not Angmar, it is not what you dreamed of that torments me. I just need to know what happened to Rhawion.' Legolas bent his head and rested it against Elrohir's.

'Rhawion? Rhawion?' Elrohir turned his face towards Legolas, astonished. 'What has happened to make you ask this now?' Elrohir said, shaking his head. 'Rhawion is dead. I know you feel somehow to blame but you are not. How could you have done more?'

Legolas rubbed one eye as if suddenly tired, and turned so he was no longer on his knees but sat on the ground with his back against the edge of the bed. 'Glorfindel and Erestor went back to Phellanthir,' he said. 'They went back because they believed me when I said he…his feä was still there, trapped somehow in Phellanthir. You were there when they returned. I know that Elladan was wounded with a morgul blade…But there is more. I know there is.'

Elrohir sighed. This would do no one any good, he knew. Rhawion's death, his absolute death, devoured by the Nazgûl, might be more that Legolas could bear and though he guessed that sometime he would have to tell Legolas all, he did not think he had the strength to do it now.

But Legolas had not finished. 'It was something I overheard,' he confessed. 'In Minas Morgul we found a palantir… and an old mirror.'

Elrohir went cold. A mirror? He was very still and listened intently, but all the time, he was remembering more and more vividly the blast of heat, the roaring that deafened him, reverberating from the ruined hall, and Erestor, wild-eyed and half mad, seeing things in there that could not be true. Glorfindel, afraid.

Legolas continued, unaware. 'Gandalf had the mirror brought out of the tower by the Men who came with us, and he brought the Palantir himself,' he said. 'But when Elladan saw the mirror he was…disturbed, even angry perhaps. He shouted at Gandalf, asked him what he thought he was doing bringing that.'

Yes, thought Elrohir in cold horror. He would, for Elladan too had seen the Glass in Phellanthir bubbling red and fiery, and the surface moving, undulating.

Legolas paused for a moment as if thinking. 'Gandalf said he could not leave it there for who knows what might find it and Elladan said that he was putting everyone at risk. That no one knows what the mirror might bring with it. He asked Gandalf if it was the same as the one in Phellanthir.'

Elrohir could not speak. The memory of it suddenly overwhelmed him:

 _…a crushing heat growing in the Hall. A sense of immense danger rang in his blood._

 _'Get out!' Erestor had shouted to Elladan, 'Glorfindel! Get them out of here!' but it was overwhelmed by the deafening roar from the Glass._

 _A huge bellow of rage thundered through the hall and it was from the Glass. Glorfindel was white-faced, his bright sword held before him. Erestor cried out in fear for the Nazgûl were close and there were shapes moving in the Glass, a furnace that raged and lit them all fiery red. The roar of the flames thundered through the hall and the surface of the mirror bulged like a bubble and stretched into a bowl of flame._

 _Splinters seemed to burn off the Glass and exploded into the air, the roaring bellow filled the hall and the heat was unbearable, a furnace. Erestor seized Glorfindel's other arm and they dragged him away from the Glass._

 _Elrohir slammed against the huge doors and glanced alongside at Glorfindel, back against the doors too and breathing hard. Through the heavy bronze he could feel the searing heat, almost too much to bear. A terrible boom echoed within and a shudder ran through the doors. He could not see what Erestor or Elladan were doing but he heard them pulling something from the rubble._

 _'What in all the Hells is that?' Elrohir muttered._

 _'That is a Balrog,' Glorfindel answered grimly. 'It has come for me.'_

 _Again, there was a tremendous thunder and the doors were pushed hard, a crack of fiery red appeared between the doors._

 _'Hold the doors!' shouted Erestor. Elrohir turned and leaned his arms against the burning metal doors. Beside him Elladan and Glorfindel braced themselves and pushed back hard but though they strained and pushed with all their might, they could not close the crack. Something, some great pressure was forcing them open. Elrohir groaned with the effort. He felt his skin seared with heat but he did not dare pull away. The huge bronze doors creaked open a fraction more._

 _A hand gripped his arm and he looked up into Glorfindel's noble face that was pale but resolved._

 _'I cannot leave,' Glorfindel was lit with the fiery glow that even now seeped beneath the doors, between the cracks in the roof and walls. 'Go, all of you! You must leave now. This is my battle, not yours. Go.''*_

'A mirror you say?' Elrohir's voice seemed to come from somewhere beyond himself, far away.

'It was taller than me, and the width of three men perhaps. It was strange,' Legolas mused. 'It seemed to be coated in something, like a film of copper perhaps and the frame was very strange…' His eyes were distant. 'Yes- copper filmed the surface and…when I looked into it, I thought a ghoul looked out at me…but it must have been my own face.' He frowned as if puzzled, a little distressed. 'Tell me. Rhawion died in Phellanthir. Was it something to do with this Mirror that you say is also in Phellanthir?'

'No.' Elrohir shook his head and Legolas seemed to sag with relief. 'This is nothing to do with Rhawion, Legolas. This is about Celebrimbor and his knowledge. He made the mirror and I think he made the one you found as well.'

He did not say that a Balrog had been contained in the Glass, by the Glass. He did not say that it had come for Glorfindel. He did not say that he feared what might by in the Glass from Minas Morgul.

0o0o

tbc


	5. Chapter 5 A conversation

Thanks to everyone for reviewing- it does encourage me to keep writing!

Happy Christmas everyone.

Special thanks to Nimruzir (realised its Alpha:) for a thought provoking review, and to Dimaranien who made me go back and look again at the previous chapter. I've tweaked bits so it is a little clearer and reads better. ANd Dewzelmis, always nice to hear these things and I'm glad you've come out of the shadows! Nako, freddie and lotrfn- you keep me going.

BETA: ANARITHILIEN

The yellow smoke refers to a vision shown Legolas in Deeper than Breathing (or Songs of Rohan on some sites) where Saruman shows Legolas a vision of Mirkwood overrun by orcs and goblins, and an elf with golden hair hoisted upon a lance by the orcs- in the way that Celebrimbor was.

Guhnâlzirâmuzbad - Celebrimbor, Lord of the Glass Doors

Narvi: The greatest of the dwarf smiths of Moria. He made the doors of Moria with Celebrimbor. The two were great friends.

 **Chapter 5: A conversation**

Legolas leaned on one elbow and watched Elrohir sleep. His beautiful face looked younger relaxed, all the cares and guilt and pain rubbed from his face. He looked more like Elladan, Legolas thought and then quashed the thought as disloyal, for Elrohir had his heart as completely as he had his body.

He wondered what would happen when he turned for home, for he needed to. He needed to be amongst the heart of the Wood, to hear the Song of the Wood, to feel the strong embrace of his father and Laersul, Thalos. To see Galion and …and to feel the absence of Anglach. To mourn his childhood friend, his chosen brother.

What would you think of me now, Anglach? he wondered. And where are you? He wondered if Anglach and Rhawion were in the same place? If he too would go there should he be slain? And all those of the Wood who lost their lives in the battle beneath the trees of his home.

He could not help but drift back to the dreadful images shown him by Saruman, in the shadow of Orthanc.

You should see Mirkwood… Ruined and burned.' The wizard's face had transformed into something ugly and inhuman, eyes narrowed and cruel, mouth curled in a sneer.

Legolas' heart squeezed. He blinked, as if trying to clear the stinging tears from his eyes and put his hand over his mouth as if yellow smoke filled his lungs, even now in the luxurious tent. A roaring was in his ears that was the sound of fire raging, of trees crashing...

….The air was yellow and sulphurous, and from the dense smoke, he could see figures running, a glint of steel flash, and his foot touched something warm. He looked down. An elven warrior stared up, eyes open and mouth gasping. His dark hair was braided and his grey eyes were wide with shock and pain. Ceredir!

Legolas fell to his knees but his hands drew through nothing but air…The yellow smoke billowed and flowed about him and Ceredir's blood bubbled in his throat, seeped from his mouth….though he could not touch him.

Through the yellow smoke, orcs poured through the trees, black silhouettes against the infernal backdrop of the burning forest. Their grotesque shapes leapt over flames and suddenly a group of screaming children appeared, running for their lives. One child saw Legolas and pointed. He knew them, they were the foresters' children. They ran towards him desperately. One orc leapt forwards, grasped a child, and without pause cut its throat with horrible efficiency.

Then the smoke walls parted and a tall powerful warrior charged into the clearing, he raised his gleaming sword and struck down the orcs who ran from his fury. Legolas saw his hair was golden. It could have been Thranduil. It could have been Laersul. Legolas could not tell for the yellow smoke obscured his view.

There was a hiss and whine of arrows. The warrior, magnificent and deadly, wielded his sword and the light glanced off the blade, arrows falling away as he did so. He turned fiercely to face his foes but one stray arrow hissed past Legolas and pierced flesh, finding its mark. The warrior stumbled and slowly, unbelieving, looked down. His sword fell heavily to the ground and he sank to his knees, raising his hands to his chest. A slow red stain seeped where the arrow had struck.

The smoke shifted and swirled and Legolas' gaze was pulled back to the burning forest and the dying warrior. A spear flashed briefly and then, amongst the crowing, jeering orcs, it plunged down, a horrid sound of tearing flesh. There was a hoarse cry, and then another was ripped unwillingly from the throat of the warrior. The spear was hoisted up high and the weight made the orc bearing it stagger a little at first until others came around and steadied it.

Saruman's voice twisted around him, conjuring those terrible scenes. 'Your brothers are slain or taken. And you know what fate awaits those taken in Mirkwood by Dol Guldur.' Orcs gibbered and mocked, shrieking around the bloody banner with its horrid trophy.

'Mirkwood… bereft of its sons, bereft of its king…its standard broken, trodden into the mud. Oh, you should see what they have done in Mirkwood. You have abandoned her and now orcs rape the children of your dead warriors.'

…..Legolas twitched suddenly awake. His heart pounded in his chest as if he had been running and there was sweat upon his brow. Laersul? Was that Laersul he had seen? Or Thranduil?

He blinked. Beneath him, thick carpets lay over rushes that were cast upon the grass of the Field of Cormallen. He was here, in Ithilien. And beside him, Elrohir, Ráveyön, his beloved, slept.

Suddenly he wanted to be gone, running back into the trees, to the Wood. Home. Home and to see his father, walk into the hardness of his embrace, the boundless love. Tease Thalos, and hug Laersul for all his stalwart, kindly generosity.

He was on his feet and moving when Elrohir turned and murmured in his sleep.

He faltered, and turned his head towards the sleeping elf he loved. Firelight cast a warm glow and gleamed in Elrohir's hair. One hand cupped his own cheek and his eyelashes fluttered slightly as he dreamed.

Legolas paused. How could he leave now? Elrohir was vulnerable, he knew. He had felt the tremor of self-doubt in Elrohir's declaration of love, as if he did not believe that Legolas loved him. That he was so unloveable that he could not be forgiven.

Legolas sighed and went back to Elrohir, lay against him and smoothed a hand over his hair as his father did when Legolas was troubled. He closed his eyes and let his heart ache with homesickness, with the need to go home, to see that all was well. 'Home,' he whispered to Elrohir too softly to wake him, too softly for him to hear. 'I have to go home. I need to …Soon.' For he knew in truth he could not abandon Aragorn just yet. And there were the Hobbits too. And Gimli…whose path home ran with his and to whom he had made promises.

And there was Elrohir, who doubted himself so much and doubted anyone could love him even more.

But he could not shake off the images of the yellow smoke coiling about the trees of his home, or the terrible curdling moans of the elf hoisted upon a lance, and it reminded him bitterly of the Orc he had spared all those long months ago when he first had ridden out with Elrohir Ravéyön, Son of Thunder, and brought his attention, his wrath, his desire upon him.

0o0o

Still restless he rose after a little while and ducked under the tent door and into the airy cold of the night. Above, the night sky wheeled slowly overhead and around him were the hushed voices of Men on watch. One Man, a little drunk, staggered past and slurred something at Legolas, raising an empty tankard to him as if in a toast. Legolas nodded at him and wove his way between the fires, making his way towards the river.

At the edge of the camp, a small group of sentries ringed one tent he had not noticed before. As he passed, looking curiously, one of the Men greeted Legolas by name and he nodded affably though he did not remember the Man. Oddly, the Man fell in step beside him though Legolas did not wish for company.

'Right glad I am to be back here instead of the Morgul Vale,' the Man said unaware of Legolas' wish to be rid of him.

Legolas turned and looked at him more closely. It was one of the two Men who had clung to each other as they entered the grim and ruined Keep of Minas Morgul. He searched his memory briefly. 'Arduin,' he said suddenly.

The Man smiled with surprised gladness.'You remember me?' he exclaimed. He seemed to feel this gave him permission to walk on with Legolas and Legolas turned his feet towards Aragorn's tent instead, thinking the Man would fall away once he realised where Legolas was headed.

'I have heard tell the Elves remember everything,' Arduin said, a little awed, but pleased nonetheless. He walked silently beside Legolas for a while and then he said, quite suddenly, 'I wish we had not brought back that looking glass. It is a strange and haunted thing.'

Legolas stopped. 'You have brought it with you?' he asked, feeling the same strange lingering sensation that he had felt when he found the glass; cold, dread.

'We have, my lord. Lord Mithrandir commanded it be brought to camp and shut away. Hidden from view. And…we have been told we must not speak of it to anyone. But since it is you, I thought…' He faltered, perhaps considering that Legolas might think he had broken a command.

Hidden from view?

'Where is it?' he asked, almost in contradiction. He wanted to know. And found himself slightly veering alongside the edge of Aragorn's tent, towards the river once more…to keep the Man with him.

Arduin shot him a quick, relieved glance. 'It is in the tent where you found me. We have to guard it day and night.' He shuffled his feet nervously and looked at his feet. 'I wish I did not have to.'

'It is the lingering sense of the Nazgûl,' Legolas said and he felt as if he were standing a long way back and watching himself from afar. 'Fear was their greatest weapon and it is no surprise that something so ancient and so long in their possession should have some …lingering sense of them.' He smiled gently and patted the young Man on the shoulder. 'I was afraid when first I came upon it. But I no longer feel so.' He walked on again, drawing Arduin with him. 'If you feel fear, in the dead of night when you are alone with it, call for me and I will come and stand you company.'

'You will?' The young Man's face was lit by such delight that Legolas hesitated; he hoped Arduin had not mistaken what he suggested. 'Yes. Of course. And I will bring my troublesome friend with me for the fug of pipeweed will drive away any ghouls or ghosties, as he would say.'

'Thank you my lord.' Arduin clasped his hands and giving a small bow, he took his leave of Legolas, returning back to the camp. He looked back over his shoulder a couple of times, and nodded each time that he met Legolas' gaze.

Legolas turned and looked at the long, sinuous darkness of the river. It slipped silently over the grey stones, stretched out a wide expanse of water. It led to the sea. He found himself staring into the blankness and dark, and his face reflected pale and watery…. He was reminded briefly of his own appearance in the glass; the strange half-light had made his skin pallid and ghostly. Like a ghoul. Like a wraith. As if something had peered briefly through the mirror from the other side.

Suddenly Legolas found that he needed Gimli, the earth-deep song, the rumble of his voice and the square, clever hands that could smooth steel like it was silk. He took a breath and realised he had been breathing only shallowly, as if to take a deeper breath might open up the bones of his ribs and expose his heart…

He stumbled back, and shook himself slightly as if to rid himself of a cobweb of dreams, sticky and clinging to his thoughts.

What he needed was company. A drunk dwarf and the smell of pipe-weed, the warmth of friendship. He almost ran from the river, its still darkness like the deep dark within the mirror.

He walked swiftly between the campfires, barely acknowledged the quiet guards as he passed and nodded briefly at the sentries outside Aragorn's tent and ducked his head, emerging into a warm cosy intimacy with a fire burning merrily, the smoke curled upward through a hole in the luxurious tent. Thick carpets were laid over sweet smelling rushes and heavy tapestries hung from the tent frame.

Aragorn sat in a low, comfortable chair pulled up before the fire, with an old, battered field-desk on his knees. Half a glass of wine was on a small table at his elbow and the Man had managed to pull the neck of his fine robe askew and shucked it up over his knees. His boots were muddy. '…so it is abandoned?' he was saying. He stopped and looked up when he saw Legolas.

Gimli sat opposite him in the other low, comfortable chair, boots off, square feet towards the fire.

'I knew you would find us eventually. When you got bored.' Gimli showed his teeth and wiggled his toes. His socks were well darned. The stitches were tiny and neat and barely seen; the same neat stitches darned Legolas' own socks. And found himself smiling. Suddenly he felt normal again, like he had been submerged and now was breathing the air.

Aragorn's face softened and warmed, and Legolas settled himself on the rich, thick rug, stretched his long legs out, remembering his father's study with its own two chairs settled before the fire and a large table nearby, covered in maps held down by anything Thranduil had to hand, glasses, candlesticks, plates of cold uneaten food. And how Galion would tut and fish about in the delicate porcelain bowl for the silver and mithril clips that Galion had had made especially…

He realised that Gimli was watching him with narrowed eye. 'I am tired,' he confessed. 'I keep drifting off. It's all right,' he added quickly seeing Aragorn's concern. 'It is not the Sea-Longing. Just reverie.'

'You need to sleep more,' Gimli observed wryly. Legolas stretched his long legs out and leaned back on his elbows, slid him a smile and quirked an eyebrow cheekily.

Aragorn put the field desk onto the floor beside him. 'I also am weary,' he agreed. 'Almost to the bone. After so long it seems strange to sleep in soft beds and have clean sheets.' He fished about in the pockets of his robes and shook his head in frustration.

Legolas grinned and reached up onto a small table beside him where a long pipe had been left. He handed it to Aragorn with a smile. 'Have they not made these fine robes to your particulars yet? You must tell them what you require, majesty,' he said with a gleam in his eye that was not in the least serious. 'My father has his tailor make pockets in several places in the lining- mainly for knives. But he has also been known to collect small stones of different colours, and leaves. And once, a toad.'

Aragorn gaped and Legolas grinned. 'Perhaps he turned someone into it,' Aragorn blurted out, clearly without thinking.

Legolas laughed. 'No indeed! It was long ago. Anglach put it there when he was small. He thought Adar had said something about a pet toad he had lost and Anglach wanted to comfort him….' He laughed softly; Anglach had adored Thranduil with an uncritical devotion unsurpassed. 'It turned out that he said something entirely different, but for a while it caused an uproar in the Council until Adar gave the toad to Thalos who just quietly took it away.'

Legolas stared into the flames.

'I cannot imagine Thranduil needing comfort from anyone…' Gimli's voice seemed almost disembodied. Which was not true, thought Legolas. His father would need comfort now if…if those visions wrought by Saruman were true…

A soft snort of laughter. Aragorn.

When Thranduil was told of Anglach's death, he had been devastated. He had been silent at first. Then he had slowly risen from his throne and without speaking, cut a swathe through all protests and grief and ridden out, a stream of warriors following behind him for none could catch him up, and smashed his way through the attacking orcs, leaving a bloody mess in his wake.

He was magnificent in his fury. Crushed in his grief.

'Legolas?'

He tore his gaze from the fire and looked up. 'Forgive me my friends, I am in the past…only in the past,' he reassured them softly.

'We were speaking of that which you found in Minas Morgul,' Gimli said gruffly, as he did when he was trying to cover his emotions. 'A looking glass. Elladan is upset with Gandalf.' He sucked on his pipe and blew out slowly, pleasurably. 'Did you find out any more from his brother?'

Legolas shook his head. 'Not much. Only that he thought this mirror is similar to one in Phellanthir…' He slowed. 'It is much to do with Celebrimbor. Elrohir thought he had made them both.'

'Celebrimbor!' Gimli leaned forwards with interest. 'Now that is interesting indeed. So that old looking glass is made by the master smith himself…I wonder why he wasted time on vanity…'

'And why the Nazgûl would think it worth saving,' Aragorn added.

'I do not think this Glass has any worth,' Legolas found himself saying, again, as if he were standing a long way away from himself and watching his mouth move, words form. 'It is old and faded. There is nothing special about it.'

The firelight flickered in Gimli's eyes and he seemed to scrutinise Legolas shrewdly. 'Nothing special you say? Celebrimbor's mark alone is of incomparable worth. I would like to have a look at it. See the workmanship, even it is only a vanity glass…' He glanced at Aragorn. 'I'd quite like a look at that Palantir as well whilst I'm about it. Now that Sauron is gone.'

Aragorn shifted uncomfortably and Gimli quirked an eyebrow. 'I'm guessing that's a no then.' The dwarf grinned affably but Aragorn looked away and Legolas picked at at his fingernail for someone had mended the sleeves to his tunic and the loose threads were tightly sewn.

It was only a moment of tension between them for they had been through too much to hold their peace. Both gave way and Legolas inclined his head.

'Aragorn, you are the King here and must command. Speak.'

Aragorn laughed gently at the irony of being commanded to speak first; his eyes were soft as he looked at both his friends. 'Gimli, if you wish to look at the Palantir, then you must. For Sauron is vanquished and has no hold upon it. But let me speak first to Gandalf so he can agree. If Gandalf says you may, then do so with my blessing. As for the looking glass, if nothing else, it is a work of great antiquity and the last work of Celebrimbor, except for the Three, and those will vanish soon, into the West.'

Gimli laughed and rubbed his hands. 'I will be the envy of Erebor and all the Kindred, masters and smiths,' he chuckled. 'To be the one to unlock the secrets of Guhnâlzirâmuzbad!'

Too late he pressed his lips together but Legolas had seized upon it. 'That is the name you give Celebrimbor?' he questioned amused. 'What does it mean?'

But when Gimli did not speak Legolas cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. 'I can work this out,' he said cheekily. 'Ziram is silver. No! Glass,' he cried in triumph. 'Yes. I remember. You spoke of the Dwimmerdale as …Keled-ziram.'

'Kheled-zâram,' Gimli corrected fussily. 'Very well, it means Lord of the Glass Doors.'

'Ah,' Aragorn said wisely. 'Of course. The Glass Doors. Now we have seen the doors of Moria, I can see why…'

'Khazad-dûm,'Gimli corrected prickly. He pulled his bushy eyebrows together and frowned at Aragorn. 'Glass,' he said, jabbing his pipe towards Aragorn a little crossly. 'Glass,' he said again, a little more gently for Aragorn was staring at him, confused. 'Do you think the Doors of Moria are made of glass?' he asked kindly now. Aragorn still looked bewildered.

'Those were made of stone, Aragorn,' Legolas reminded him. 'And mithril was used to draw the runes and welcome,' he added slowly as if Aragorn were a little stupid.

'I know that,' Aragorn responded crossly. He pressed his lips together. 'I am not completely stupid.' But Gimli simply looked kindly at the King Returned and Legolas snorted. Aragorn tutted at both of them.

'Really Aragorn. You are going to have to work harder if our people aren't going to completely take advantage of you! Those wily old lords have been dealing with Denethor for decades. You are going to have to sharpen up.'

Aragorn stared at each one in turn, lost for words.

'Lord of the Glass Doors?' Legolas prompted. Then he sighed showily as if Aragorn was supposed to know whatever the secret was about the glass doors. 'Really Aragorn! Obviously there is a mirror like this one in Phellanthir.'

'Obviously!' Aragorn bit back sarcastically. 'Of course.' He didn't want to admit it- but how was he supposed to have made the leap from finding Celebrimbor's mirror in Minas Morgul, to assuming there was one in Phellanthir? Oh. 'There had to be a reason why the Nazgûl were guarding Phellanthir,' he realised

'Yes,' Legolas smiled encouragingly. 'And this one must have been salvaged from when Sauron destroyed the cities of Eregion. But Narvi was a great smith of M…Khazad-dûm and great friends with Celebrimbor. They must have talked all the time about what they were doing, hence the name. It wouldn't surprise me if Narvi wasn't up to his hairy little neck in it!' he said.

Gimli looked pleased. 'So some of my teaching has rubbed off on you after all!' he declared. 'It just goes to show you never can tell what's going in one pointy little ear and out the other and what sticks!' He beamed at Legolas proudly. 'It's the Mirrors, Aragorn ,' he explained slowly and carefully as if Aragorn had trouble keeping up. 'Narvi knew what your man, Celebrimbor was making.'

'Obviously!' Aragorn rolled his eyes. 'They were great friends. So they made them in Khazad-dûm as well?'

'Yes!' Gimli looked absurdly pleased with both of them. 'There are tales of a Hall of Glass, where the seer could walk upon and through light. The spectrum was like a tangible thing, Narvi's writing tells of this. And Azaghâl writes of the many mirrors that lined the hall and the light stretched. He wrote as well of the copper used to construct the hall and that mithril was smelted down to make an ore so pure it changed the very nature of the observed. …It makes fascinating reading. I must lend to to you sometime.'

Aragorn leaned forwards, intrigued. 'Do you think the halls survived the Balrog? It would be a wonder to see,' he said suddenly interested. 'Or do you think the Balrog's heat would have melted the glass?'

'Oh I am sure the Balrog never came there,' said Gimli cheerfully and, Aragorn thought, unreasonably optimistic. 'It would be worth exploring and seeing what remains'

But Legolas was silent. He suddenly felt like he was standing on the very edge of darkness and staring beyond into the chasm of Night.


	6. Chapter 6 Alliances

Note: For those of you anxious that Legolas has had no messages from home, there is one on its way but won't arrive until the next chapter. He did receive news of home at the very end of Sons II. Celeborn had met with Thranduil under the eaves of Mirkwood so he knew at least his father was safe.

Also I have posted another chapter of Black Arrow - if you have been reading that, you'll be getting some strong hints about the way things are panning out in Mirkwood - or they will be. Next couple of weeks are intense but I have the next chapter of Black Arrow almost done.

If you want to read about the chess game and how it led to a kiss, I have posted the short fic, Imrahil on Ao3 and ffnet as I realised I hadn't. It's been on Faerie for ages.

Also, apologies for the delay- just work.

Thank you as always to the very wonderful Anarithilen.

Also to the very many encouraging reviewers. Thank you.

 **Chapter 6: Alliances**

Aragorn spread his hands over the map, which some valet or page or another had carefully unrolled and fixed on his desk with ornate and beautiful paperweights. He glanced at them, noting the craftsmanship and skimming his finger over the plotted marks that showed where was still fighting with the remnants of the Easterlings and Southrons: even now Aragorn's army was engaged in skirmishes in the northern parts of Mordor. Indeed he had dispatched Legolas and Gimli to pursue a steady stream of Orc troops that were fleeing north, and Eomer led the skirmishes to the east into Mordor. All the Orcs were killed, but Men they took prisoner and these had been sent back with the wounded and were housed in smaller tents dotted around the camp.

Aragorn cast about for the scribbled notes he had made after each meeting with the captive leaders. He had greeted each of the chieftains with courtesy and having found a number of interpreters, been able to converse and parley with many of them. The sheaf of notes was piled on the corner of the desk and he shuffled through them, skimming the notes rapidly. He thought something had been said that niggled away in the back of his mind but he could not remember and could not find them now. There was a neater pile of scrolls, carefully arranged and tied with a red ribbon and sealed with his own mark that were neatly stacked on another table. These were the treaties he had made with the Easterling and Southron chieftains.

But not with all of them. One of the chiefs of the Easterlings, a Man called Kustîg, had refused to speak to Aragorn and had spat at his feet when he was brought before the new King. The interpreter had eventually been persuaded to translate that Kustîg believed that Aragorn should be killed for his crimes against the Dark God-King, Sauron, the Bringer of Gifts, Lord of Life. 'Kustîg the Red says that the King will curse the day he set his hand against the Dark God,' the translator had said, head bowed and trembling before Aragorn as if he expected to be struck down for speaking such words. Kustîg had gone on to say a lot more before he had been dragged out by Aragorn's outraged guards. But he was not the only one who spoke such threats. Aragorn sighed and bowed his head. He did not know what to do with these intransigent Men.

'You must keep trying,' Gandalf had said kindly, patiently. 'Do not give up. Peace is hard to build and war an easy stroke of a sword. You must hope for understanding. Hope for peace.'

And there were those amongst his newly formed Council who advised him that if Kustîg would not sue for peace, he could easily be displaced by another of the Men who would be more inclined to bow his head to Aragorn's liege. They did not say how Aragorn should 'displace' Kustîg, and Aragorn did not want to think about that right now. It was one thing to kill a Man in battle. Another thing entirely to assassinate a political enemy in cold blood. And as his prisoner.

No. He could not do it. He would not. There must be another way, he decided.

Outside the air was warm and Spring was here; it felt like the earth was turning slowly to awaken and birds were singing in the trees near the river. Longingly, Aragorn looked through the open curtains that were doors to his tent, deep brocade and ornate. They were tied back with heavily embroidered silk rope. There was movement near the door and he saw the guards had changed. From his desk, he nodded courteously to the guard who had just come to stand at his door.

'Good morning, Arvon,' he said.

The Man nodded back. 'Good morning, your majesty.'

Aragorn could not quite get used to that. He was uncomfortable too with the politicking and constant need for diplomacy, although he knew too that he was good at that. But he wished Gimli were here, and Legolas, to keep his feet on the ground. Even better, he wished he were with them, riding together, fighting the Orcs that had been sighted fleeing across the Dead Marshes.

With his finger, he traced the route that Gimli reported the Orcs were taking and which he had plotted on the map. On their way North, Aragorn thought. Perhaps making their way to the Misty Mountains? There had been a rather larger number than he had expected after Sauron's defeat at the Morannon, but if they escaped now, they would have to pass through or near Mirkwood.

To his left were a pile of letters and messages on his desk. Amongst them were letters from Celeborn. A second messenger had arrived from the Lord of Lothlorien with more detailed news of the war elsewhere. In his letter to Aragorn he told how he had met with Thranduil's forces under the eaves of Mirkwood and together they had ploughed their strength anew against Dol Guldur and driven back Sauron's forces there so they fled into the forest. Thranduil had departed then in pursuit and Celeborn had returned to Lothlorien.

There were three other unopened letters; two from Celeborn for Elrohir and Elladan, and one from Thranduil for Legolas. There were also formal greetings of course, a hastily written note from the field of battle from Thranduil but he had not said much other than to congratulate Aragorn on his victory and hope that he would accept Legolas as representative at his coronation for Thranduil was still engaged in skirmishes, he said, but not full-scale battle by any means, in the north of the forest.

There are still skirmishes in Mirkwood, Aragorn thought carefully. And there were Orcs fleeing the Morannon to go North. He wondered if they were deliberately joining the battle in Mirkwood…But surely not? Surely there was no great design or mind behind the orcs now? Sauron was vanquished, gone and the Orcs were rootless and simply fleeing to wherever they might find refuge. There were skirmishes everywhere, he knew. For he had marked all reports on the map in front of him and they were scattered all over Middle Earth from the edges of Mordor to Imladris.

He tapped his finger on the dark green shading that denoted Mirkwood on the map and shook his head. No. This must be coincidence, he thought. The Orcs could be going to Gundabad, or to the Misty Mountains. Or even further.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the piles of letters and messages. The messages for Gimli and Legolas lay to one side but he did not think they would return until the evening or even the following day.

A blackbird sang loudly in the tree outside his tent and the grass crushed beneath the carpets and rugs smelled sweet and fresh. He pushed back his heavy carved chair suddenly and stood up. Arvon glanced in but said nothing and Aragorn grabbed his pipe and went out into the morning sun to find the Hobbits.

0o0o

The Hobbits always sat outside Frodo's tent to smoke a Between-Breakfast pipe, as Pippin called it. It was the last of the Longbottom Leaf that Sam was generously sharing with the rest of them. But whilst the other hobbits sprawled on the grass, Frodo sat in a deeply upholstered armchair that had been brought out for him. Even though it was not Man-size, he still looked swamped in, lost and diminished. But Merry refused to think of that and instead concentrated on the joy of having Frodo back at all. And Sam seemed somehow taller, nobler than Merry had ever realized; his gentle care of Frodo had become something else and Merry almost looked away for the sudden pang in his heart of what had happened to them.

'Gimli will be sorry to have missed this,' Pippin observed, unaware of Merry's thoughts. He was wiggling his feet admiringly. Pippin was always a trifle vain about his feet, having been told from a young age that his feet were particularly fine. His toes he thought rather elegant and he had brushed the hair so it shone. Merry smirked at him knowingly and was about to make a comment when Pippin suddenly leapt to his feet and gave an exaggerated and sweeping bow. Frodo laughed.

'Good morning, your majesty!' Frodo cried and it was a joy to hear the pleasure in his voice.

It was Aragorn and all of them were delighted to see him for he had been stuck away with the Great and the Good, as Gimli called them. Merry scooted up and made room for Aragorn and the King settled on the grass between them happily, drawing out his pipe. He accepted Sam's Longbottom Leaf with a pleased smile and filled his pipe.

Merry watched him as he lit it and leaned back with a contented smile, blowing a long stream of smoke between his lips but Merry noted the lines under his eyes and the tiredness in his face.

'Look! Strider's back!' Pippin said and Aragorn smiled.

'He has never been away,' Merry said kindly because he thought Aragorn looked like he needed this.

'Have Legolas and Gimli returned yet?' Pippin asked.

Merry glanced at him quickly for Pippin was always anxious when any of the Fellowship were away and he had been especially protective of Legolas since that dreadful time on the Mindolluin, when the Nazgûl had pursued the elf and he had returned broken and empty. Although Pippin had had to tell Merry about the ordeal, for Merry himself had been a victim of the Black Breath and been almost unaware of what was happening. Merry watched Pippin carefully, for he worried about Pippin and Pippin and Gimli worried about Legolas, and Legolas watched Aragorn and Sam, and they all worried about Frodo.

'They are on their way back,' Aragorn said as he stretched out his ridiculously long legs and crossed his feet. He drew on his pipe and let a steady stream of thin smoke spiral upwards soothingly.

'Good,' Pippin said. 'I don't like it when any of us are away. We should have some time together before…Well. Before we go home I suppose.' But though they all missed the Shire, Merry knew that none of them were in a rush now. Except for Sam perhaps, who was convinced that Rosie Cotton was in the arms of some young farmer from Bywater.

'When will you return to the city?' Frodo asked Aragorn quietly. The deep and comfortable armchair made him look smaller even though the colour was slowly returning to his cheeks and he was getting a slight roundness that hobbits should all have. But he was still too thin and his appetite woefully poor. 'I wouldn't mind a hot bath and a proper roof over my head.' Frodo laughed softly. 'It is no time at all since I thought just a taste of water would be enough to satisfy me forever but it seems I have quickly begun to take things for granted that only weeks ago I thought I would never see again.'

In the quiet moment that followed, Pippin reached out and patted Frodo's hand and Merry puffed rather energetically on his pipe. But Frodo met Sam's eyes and a smile of such tenderness passed between them that Merry felt overwhelmed and humbled and Aragorn looked away.

'We were wondering how long we are going to stay here, Strider,' said Sam after a moment.

'Yes. Hot baths and proper beds all around, I'd say,' Merry added more brightly, wanting this sadness to evaporate and get some cheer back in their hearts. He missed Eowyn in truth and was keen to see how she was getting on with Faramir.

'Soon,' Aragorn replied. 'Imrahil has been writing to Faramir so the preparations are made. We will take the ships and sail down the Anduin to Osgiliath. Then ride back to Minas Tirith where I hope Faramir will come and meet me.'

'Is there any doubt?' Merry asked quickly, feeling a little surge of irritation at the suggestion that Faramir might refuse. He could not imagine the quiet, serious young Man he had left in the houses of Healing being anything but good and honourable…like Boromir had been at the end, he thought but did not speak.

'I hope not,' Aragorn replied. 'But he is the Steward and Denethor's son.'

Merry frowned and began to speak but Pippin interjected helpfully, 'And Boromir's brother.'

'He is very different from Boromir,' Merry said quickly. 'And anyway, Boromir was affected by the Ring for such a long time. But he became himself again in the end.' He remembered that terrible day when they had been assailed and Boromir lost his life defending him and Pippin, and they were carried off by the horrible Orcs and goblins.

'Yes, he did,' Pippin said rather loudly and then looked away because Frodo glanced at him quickly.

Merry pursed his lips anxiously, seeing the way the conversation had become difficult and uncomfortable but they had just wanted to enjoy Aragorn's company. There was so much more to be said even now, he thought. So much to work out and untangle between all of them.

'Faramir will be happy to have you as King, I am sure,' he said reassuringly. 'After all, you healed him from the Black Breath.'

'That is true,' Aragorn agreed. 'But Denethor would never have accepted anyone else… and from the start, Boromir merely expressed what many of Gondor will be thinking: I have been raised by elves, lived amongst the Men of the North and though some may have heard of Thorongil, Denethor's jealousy made sure my name did not linger for long in the minds of Gondor.' He tapped down his pipe and relit it for it had gone out. 'If Boromir had lived,' he continued, 'It would have been far easier. These great lords have only ever known a Steward, and would have followed Boromir's lead. I do not know what hold Faramir has. I do not know what they think of a King that has lived all these long years amongst the elves, and his father and grandfather before that. To them, I am a foreigner. An interloper.'

'But you have just led them to victory! You have defeated Sauron.' Merry could not help himself from bursting out like Pippin would have done.

'Frodo and Sam defeated Sauron,' Aragorn declared proudly, looking at the two hobbits. 'And I would take nothing from them. In truth had they failed, I would have led the army to certain destruction.' He spread his hands wide and his grey eyes were serious. 'The city would have been left open to Sauron's forces…' He held Merry's gaze and then said more quietly, 'There are some who say it every day around the camp if you choose to listen.'

Aragorn said it practically, and Merry knew it was true. Quietly behind their hands or closed doors, only a few but the quiet and discrete hobbits heard much that they were not intended to. And Merry knew that if Aragorn did not govern well and strongly, those few dissenters would become more. And he was still unknown to these Men who had followed Denethor and Boromir for all the years against Sauron.

'In their minds,' Aragorn continued reasonably, 'I did not come to their aid until the very end when hope had come unlooked for and timely, from Rohan. There will be those who judged my arrival as too timely- they ask why I did not fight with them before, why did I leave it until the very end to join my people.' He shrugged for he understood. 'They have not heard of Strider, or Thorongil. They do not know that I have been at their side albeit under a different name. I need Faramir to accept me so that they will too…If they see Faramir as a worthy successor to Denethor, to Boromir.' He glanced around at the serious, concerned faces of the hobbits. 'It is what they say, and I cannot blame them.'

'Then I choose not to listen,' declared Sam stoutly. 'We would never have even got to Rivendell if we hadn't met you, Strider. The Ring would be Sauron's by now if it weren't for you and I for one will stand up and tell them that!'

And while Merry agreed with him, he agreed with Aragorn too that he and Faramir needed an alliance, that Aragorn had indeed called Faramir back from the Black Breath. But Merry had also seen how Faramir looked upon Eowyn. But Eowyn looked upon Aragorn with the same breathless hope. And Aragorn was to be wed to Arwen.

It didn't look very easy at all to Merry.

0o0o

Indeed at supper, Aragorn sat and listened, for the same conversation was being rehearsed again with the lords of Gondor. He was tired of worrying about it, thinking about it and just wanted it to be over. He toyed with a piece of meat, wiping it around his plate with his fork.

'… the people must know, my lord, that you are among them and taking your rightful place.' Lord Angbor had journeyed with him from the battle in Lebennin where Aragorn had appeared out of nowhere with the forgotten army of the Dead, and Angbor had bowed his head and pledged fealty to Aragorn. Loyal, honest, completely trustworthy. Aragorn had been pleased to include him in his new Council. Others, he was less pleased with but knew he had no choice if he was to rule. Lord Herion sat opposite, thin mouth and wary, mistrustful eyes. It was he who had spoken against going to Minas Morgul. He was one Aragorn had yet to convince. And there were others. He glanced down the long table where his lords were sitting, waited upon, eating from silver platters, wiping their mouths, drinking wine. He caught Elrohir's gaze upon him, concerned, understanding and raised an eyebrow very slightly, knowing his brother would notice. Elrohir's mouth curled, amused, and he lifted his glass. He noticed that Elladan sat lower down the table, next to Imrahil. It was surprising that Imrahil had been seated so far from the King and Aragorn wondered who had been able to manipulate the seating to ensure some were closer to him than others and so had his ear.

Suddenly Aragorn wanted nothing more than a camp fire and his brothers' company. Or the Fellowship. Halbarad. Ah, Halbarad – if only he could have seen Aragorn now. But he only nodded at Angbor's point and continued to wipe the meat around his plate.

'But what of Faramir? He must be made to acknowledge the King first, humble himself…' Forlong's son, Aragorn could not remember his name, who had yet to be declared as his fallen father's successor, was young and fervent. And ardently supportive of the King. Too headstrong, rash, he needed to be refined and moulded and then he would be a great ally, thought Aragorn, wondering if he was married yet and if not, could he be found a suitable wife…Then stopped himself. This was exactly what was going through the minds of every great House here; find the King a suitable wife, forge an alliance with the new King, have influence. The sooner Arwen arrived and put a stop to that the better.

'Faramir will not humble himself!' a voice further down the table raised in protest. He could not remember the name of this lord; dark hair, grey eyes. Typical Gondor stock.

'Indeed not! Why should he? He is the son of the Steward and raised to govern. True, Denethor was completely mad by the end, but it was not always so.'

Aragorn stirred himself and looked about his council. He really did not know many of them and trusted fewer. It was old lord Herion who spoke last.

'Remember it was Faramir who held Ithilien for all those years. He fought the Enemy far from the shelter of the city.' Herion rapped his stick against the table leg grumpily. He had been one of Denethor's right hand men. He was powerful, owned much of the land that had been despoiled by Sauron's army but was fertile agricultural land that would be needed to feed the city. Aragorn knew he had to make an ally of Herion. He was of an old family with strong allegiances to other old families…All of whom would be hoping for an allegiance to the new King. A wedding to an elf would not make this any easier.

'Lord Faramir will certainly not humble himself before me,' Aragorn spoke with quiet authority. 'And I will not require it. He has acquitted himself with very great honour and I intend to have him at my side to help me rule. He knows this city, this land. He loves it as I do. It is in his blood, as it is in mine. We share kindred.' Aragorn looked challengingly around the table. Gandalf was seated quietly at the far end but his blue eyes were approving. 'I will request that Faramir visit me before we go into the city and he will ride at my right hand. Indeed it is at his invitation that I will enter, and only then.'

There was a murmur of approval.

'And how will Faramir be known once you are King?' Herion challenged. His pale blue eyes were rheumy but there was no doubt in them now. He clutched the silver top of his cane. The veins of his hands were thick and blue, his skin translucent with age. But his hands still wielded a sword well and power even more accurately, heavily. Aragorn met the Man's eyes but he did not smile; he must appear stronger than any other, fill them with confidence that here was their leader. Here was their King.

Aragorn paused. He had not considered Faramir's title; it was an important point, he realized now it had been said. But his face betrayed nothing. 'I think that is something for my steward and I to discuss, Lord Herion. Do you not think? But the title of Steward has long been an honourable one and I see no reason that it should not continue.'

The satisfaction on Herion's face was reward enough and Aragorn glanced around to see that Elrohir had the slightest of smiles on his face but it was full of pride. He raised his glass and nodded at Aragorn.

'Let us raise a toast to Faramir, guardian of Ithilien and Steward to the King!'

The words were echoed and Elrohir smiled appreciatively, catching Aragorn's eye: Steward to the King- the emphasis firmly on the King's authority.

0o0o

Elladan had positioned himself discretely. He leaned nonchalantly against a tent post, one knee bent, resting his foot against the pole, arms folded over his chest.

'You look like a heraldic device; elf sable upon an argent field,' a voice murmured by his ear.

He smiled.

'Hear anything useful?' Imrahil shifted to stand in front of him now, so he had to slightly look up for the Man was almost as tall as he when Elladan stood upright. Imrahil held two glasses of wine, and held one out to Elladan. Their fingers touched briefly and Elladan felt a frisson of erotic desire fizzle through his fingers, his hands. He almost looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, but there were similar little knots of men gathered about, talking, their eyes cut this way and that to observe, to note, to judge. Who was talking to whom? Who was making a deal, and alliance? Who was closest to the new King?

'Aragorn's refusal to humiliate Faramir has been well received,' said Imrahil in his smooth urbane voice, his attention all on Elladan. It brought the small hairs on his neck up, shivered pleasurably

'Faramir is clearly well thought of, if weaker than his brother, the ill-fated Boromir.' Elladan pulled a sour face for he had heard of the Man's fall from grace, his attempt to wrest the Ring from Frodo and whilst the Fellowship were forgiving and defended him, Elladan could not.

'Be wary of how you speak of my late nephew.'

Elladan glanced up to see a flash of anger in Imrahil's sharp blue eyes. He looked away sheepishly and inclined his head, acknowledging the slight. 'Forgive me. I suppose I only saw him when the Ring was pulling him. I did not know him at his best.'

Imrahil's lips parted in a breath. He looked at Elladan more softly. 'That is true and it grieves me more than I can speak that at the end of his life he was so corrupted. But you know, he was a great leader.' He sighed and bent his head. The lamplight gleamed on his dark hair. 'Had Aragorn arrived with Boromir, there would be none who questioned his right to rule. If Boromir had bent his knee to Aragorn, all would follow … Faramir is loved. But he is not Boromir.' He swirled his wine in the glass and looked into its depths. 'Faramir is gentler, better for peace, for conciliation. He would be a good choice for Steward in this new Age.'

Elladan felt unsophisticated, gauche for his unthinking remark. He stepped closer so his arm pressed against Imrahil's, and he leaned towards the Man. Impulsively, he said, 'May I come to you tonight?'

Imrahil inclined his head with a slight smile and to any onlooker, it was merely two great lords close to the King conferring, agreeing. Indeed there were many others who were; Herion stood nearby talking to one of his sons and Angbor laughed loudly at something Aragorn had said.

It was the first time Elladan had asked Imrahil for any more than a game of chess. And the only time they had shared anything more than a handshake was at Legolas' contrivance. Elladan felt a tremor of lust and anxiety at the eager anticipation in Imrahil's eyes and looked away quickly. He licked his lips suddenly gone dry at the thought of the Man, his strong, wiry body, older, not an Elf. The crinkles at the side of his eyes, the lines near his mouth that showed where he laughed.

'I have maps of that area in my tent,' Imrahil said a little more loudly so Herion and his son turned their heads slightly. 'Let me show you, my lord. I think you will find what you are looking for amongst them.' He drained his glass quickly, too quickly and threw a bright, mischievous glance at Elladan and then walked out. Elladan stood for a moment, astonished, alarmed and then followed him.

Imrahil had arrived before Elladan so that when Elladan stepped through the doorway of the pavilion, Imrahil had his back to Elladan and pouring wine. He had already thrown off his formal robes, cast them carelessly upon a wooden trunk, and stood in a thin shirt, breeches that were tight over his thighs, his buttocks, and long boots that were very fine. His black hair was cut shoulder-length and he had pulled it back now and tied it with a leather string as if for business. When Elladan stood in the doorway, Imrahil turned towards him, two goblets in his hands and his piercing blue eyes were bright.

'I did not mistake your intention?' he asked. But his eyes were calm, anticipating. And Elladan was nervous. He had never really desired another man until Legolas had kissed him aboard the Sea Song, never even thought about it…

No. That was not true.

He had had a crush on Erestor for years. Until Erestor had kindly, carefully rebuffed him, so gently that he never even realized, until he stopped dreaming of the older man's strange amber eyes, his subtle gaze, his straight-backed stride…Erestor had always been his guardian. Always watched for him. When he was pushed away by his mother in that careless, kindly way, it was Erestor who was there…

He decided that there was something about Imrahil that reminded him of Erestor. Perhaps that was why he found the Man so attractive? He must be his 'type' he thought, and took the proffered wine, threw it down his throat quickly so it curled in his belly like warmth, like Erestor's kindly arm thrown about his shoulder. But Elladan didn't want kindness; a thrilling excitement fluttered in his belly, in his loins.

Imrahil took the empty goblet from him and their fingers brushed against each other. He smiled and then took Elladan's hand in his, drew him into the pavilion and with his other hand, loosed the rope that held the tent flap open so it fell back and shut out the sun, shut out all sound. With one hand he quickly looped the rope over a hook in the frame so anyone trying to enter would have to struggle with the heaviness of the curtain, and a second curtain fell around them so they were enveloped in heavy silk and embroidered tapestries, the world shut out, sounds muffled.

'Come here,' said Imrahil and he led Elladan to the bed, covered in cushions and down-filled quilts. The Man smiled and sank down amongst the cushions. He toed his boots off and kicked them away, pulling his shirt loose from the waistband of his breeches. Reclining back amongst the silk cushions and pillows he held out his hand and Elladan took it, sank down with the Prince of Dol Amroth.

When Imrahil kissed him, he tasted the wine on his lips, smelt it on his breath, licked it from his mouth. It was different from kissing a woman, he thought. He liked a woman's lips moist but found he liked the dryness of Imrahil.

When he pulled the leather tie from Imrahil's hair, Imrahil's hand were thrust into his own hair and his head pulled back. Imrahil looked deeply into his eyes, the blue of his own irises the colour, Elladan thought, of the sea on a clear day, a day when the sun shines upon it and it is smooth like blue silk. Imrahil smiled as if he read his thoughts and kissed him hard, pushing his tongue into Elladan's mouth and plucking at the ties of his tunic, his shirt, tugging his own from his body and pressing hard against him.

Imrahil's hard hands were already upon Elladan's own flesh, kneading and stroking alternately, and his licking and sucking and biting and kissing merged into one rolling sensation after another and Elladan did not know where he ended and Imrahil started for their flesh, their skin, hair, lips, thighs pressed and rubbed against each other in a delicious ecstasy. He felt his cock bulging so hard he thought he might burst before it was time and quickly pinched the end to suppress the climactic ecstasy that threatened to tip him over.

'Lie down,' Imrahil murmured into his hair.

Elladan hesitated and then lay himself down on the bed, stretched out naked and looked up at Imrahil.

Imrahil tossed back the last of his wine while he looked admiringly, appreciatively at Elladan. 'You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen.'

Elladan didn't quite know what to say; he was not used to thinking of himself like that. Healer, warrior, lore-master. But not beautiful. He lifted his hand and stroked back Imrahil's hair wondering what he should say in return but he did not need to for Imrahil bore down upon him then and pressed his mouth against Elladan's, pushed his tongue in so he thought he would faint and let his hands catch at Elladan's balls, his cock, squeeze and twist and pump until he arched and lifted himself from the bed in anguished desire.

He knew words broke from his lips but did not know what they were for he was overcome and felt the churning in his balls. He cried out once but immediately Imrahil flipped him over and Elladan's face was in the pillows, smelling of Imrahil, his faint perfume of spice and musk. Imrahil's hands were slick with oil and he firmly kneaded Elladan's flesh, slid his hands over his shoulders, his back, his thighs and then slid between the crease of his flesh, pressed at him.

'You are tense, my beautiful warrior.' Imrahil stilled his hand and leaned over Elladan's back, breathed over his neck so a shiver went down his spine. His hands were gentler now, he pushed Elladan's legs apart with his knee and stroked his balls from behind. A lovely thrill of desire shot through Elladan. 'I will be gentle, I promise…but next time I will devour you.'

There was a slow push of oiled fingers first that Elladan baulked at and then gagged the cry that pushed from his mouth as a hot, blunt hardness pushing against his clenched muscles. He felt Imrahil pause and consider.

'Do you wish me to stop?' Imrahil leaned over him, gently brushed his hair back from his face so he could see how Elladan had pressed his face into the pillow like some virgin.

Elladan slowed his breathing and slowly let himself relax. He shook his head and Imrahil covered his fists, bunched and clenched into the silk sheets. He took Elladan's fingers and slowly uncurled them, kissed them and stroked his hair, his shoulders, pushed between them and stroked a fingernail over his own cock. Sudden desire flooded him then and he twisted about to press his mouth against Imrahil's, wound his arms about the Man's neck and pulled him close. Imrahil gasped and pushed Elladan back down and then the blunt, hot hardness pressed further and his tender skin tore and stretched and burned. He cried out at the slow pain that suddenly changed into liquid pooling of desire. Oh but now his cry was astonished and wondrous and he pushed back, wanting the touch, the friction over that place. There it was again, and again, and he found himself shoving back as hard as Imrahil, grasping, clutching, panting so that all thoughts and words were driven from him. He pushed up onto his hands and knees to push himself back, impale himself on the column of hard muscle inside him. There was Imrahil's hand clutching him around his waist and with an impatient cry, Elladan grabbed it and clamped it around his own full, hard cock, so hot, so needy, and pumped it with Imrahil's hand, once, twice and he exploded in liquid, sticky climax.

He felt Imrahil jerk against him and then still, but his head was ringing and he blinked sweat from his eyes. A hand stroked down his flanks and he felt Imrahil slowly, very carefully withdraw. But even so, it hurt and he wished it did not.

Imrahil collapsed on the bed, laughing softly.

'Well my warrior, that I have waited for ever since I first met you.'

Elladan rolled onto his back and turned his head to look at Imrahil. He had leaned over and swiped up a cloth from beside the bed and was wiping his hands, then his own thighs. He handed a clean one to Elladan and smiled, his teeth flashed in the twilight that was inside the tent.

When Elladan did not reply, Imrahil's face became concerned, serious. 'Do not regret this, Elladan. I know what this is.'

But Elladan was not thinking that. He was thinking instead that his heart was full and he loved this Man.

He reached out and cupped Imrahil's cheek and leaned over for a slow, deep kiss. 'I have no regret,' he said.

0o0o

Aragorn had noticed Imrahil and Elladan's departure and glanced at Elrohir.

If Elrohir had not looked so concerned, he would not have felt anything other than pleased that his most important ally and his brother were getting on well. Lord Herion was still speaking and he could not just make an excuse and wander casually over to Elrohir to ask wherefore he was so concerned.

'So the need is more pressing than we thought,' Gandalf was saying and Aragorn tore his attention back to the discussion. 'It is time, I think, to return to Minas Tirith. Send messengers to Faramir, Aragorn, telling him what you intend and asking him to make ready and then come and meet you.'

Aragorn nodded. 'Very well. We will start to decamp in the morning. And besides,' he added softly, 'the hobbits wish for a hot bath and roof over their head. I will see it done.'

There was a murmur of agreement infused with wonder, for the Men of Gondor were not only getting used to their new King, but the idea that Halflings had made the journey into Mordor and it was they who had, in truth, defeated the Dark Lord.

'The ships are already moored in the Anduin, your majesty,' Angbor said. 'We will start to embark in the morning.'

There was a murmur of agreement and Aragorn thought that at least they agreed on something. When he glanced over at Elrohir though, his brother was staring into nothing and his lips were parted, his grey eyes full of fear.

0o0o


	7. Chapter 7 Hunting Orcs

Thank you to everyone who pointed out that my spell check had automatically changed ERESTOR to erector in the last chapter. How embarrassing! It was very intrusive.

 **Chapter 7: Hunting Orcs**

Ahead of them black shapes scuttled against the yellow-brown grass, dried and scorched and drowned all at once, for this was Dagorlad and ahead were the Dead Marshes. The orcs, strung out like lines of marching ants, hoped to reach the marshes where the horses could not go and they could pick off the pursuing Men more easily than turn and fight a pitched battle. Legolas had hoped not to go there but he would not back away from pursuit of the shuffling orcs as they fled north. He felt Gimli hands stuck in his belt, clinging tightly and Arod's muscles bunched and stretched as he charged amongst the Dunedain and Rohirrim.

Beside him Eomer's chestnut stallion, Firefoot, galloped, his long tail lifted high and floating behind him. His master's plume pulled at the same angle and the weak sunlight glinted on Eomer's drawn sword. The Orcs that Eomer had been hunting in the East of Mordor had turned north and fled through the gaping ruin of the Morannon and into Dagorlad where Legolas and Gimli hunted with the remains of Aragorn's Dunedain.

Legolas was trapped under Eomer's hurt and accusing gaze every time they paused or the orcs turned for a final desperate stand. But for now, they were fighting and that suited both of them.

'Forth Eorlingas!' Eomer's cry and Arod, horse of Rohan lifted his tail and sped after Firefoot. Legolas reached behind him for arrows and shot over Eomer's head towards the orcs. Black shapes fell ahead of them and then swiftly, they were among the orcs.

Legolas pulled Arod up momentarily for Gimli to slide down and then was off again, galloping in a wide circle with other archers around the orcs. Legolas leaned down and fired one arrow after another. Arrows whizzed into the pack of orcs and their panicked faces turned briefly towards the archers of Rohan before they returned fire. A horse stumbled ahead of Legolas and he felt a moment of fear for it was a bright chestnut and he thought it might have been Eomer's Firefoot but at that same moment, Eomer's voice carried over the noise away to the left. Legolas emptied his quiver sooner than the other archers and leapt from Arod into the fray, knives drawn and heart pounding with excitement. He saw the glint of Gimli's axe in a sweep upwards, spattered in blood and strung with black gore.

An ululating cry broke from his own lips and he cast himself into the horde, whipping his knives over throats and faces so they split in a horrible grin that showed teeth and bone. Thick blood gushed and spattered over everything. He turned to smash the pommel of his knife into a face, ground it like jelly and with a cry of anguish, the orc fell onto its knees. He whirled about and kicked it hard in the gut so it fell and as it did, he slowed and drew his long white knife across its throat so its clumsy hands clutched at the red line that burbled from its throat.

Legolas reached down and shoved his fingers into the gap that had opened and groped for the long tubes and strings. He found them, and twisted. He tilted his head slightly as the orc's eyes widened, its mouth opened and gasped, and fell at his feet.

He turned to catch Gimli's eyes upon him.

Legolas strode past him, knives gleaming wet and still hungry. 'For Anglach,' he said briefly as he passed. Gimli watched him with no understanding but Legolas did not care. It was Anglach he saw before him; laughing, sweetly smiling as he delivered some barb that was only ever meant in affection.

Ahead of him an orc ran and he nodded to himself. This one would pay as well. Every orc he killed now was for Anglach. And Naurion whom he could not save from the Nazgûl when orcs attacked Smeagol's guards and released the evil creature. He leapt in front of the orc; it was already wounded but its fierce, ugly face snarled when it saw Legolas and it turned to face him. In one hand a crude iron sabre, in the other a round iron buckler spiked and sharp-edged.

'So it is true! An elf of Mirkwood!' it snarled and twirled its iron sabre.

Legolas snarled right on back and hefted his knives in each hand. Suddenly he sprang at the orc. It met both knives with the sabre and then swung the buckler into Legolas' shoulder. He leapt away but too late for the buckler caught his shoulder and hurled him off balance and Legolas thumped down onto the hard ground with the orc snarling and teeth bared above him. Then came a mighty punch in his gut from the orc's knee as it crunched down upon him, bellowing rage. Legolas swung with his knife but the Orc bashed his hand back and ground it against a stone. The small bones in Legolas' hand cracked and he cried out in pain, the nerves froze and the knife flew from his hand.

'You think you have won, Azgarâzir-vak, [' it sneered. 'But you should see Mirkwood. We have slain your brother and raped his woman.'

A flash of an image before him…yellow smoke, a body hoisted high, twitched and gave a low groan...

Cold fury flooded him. He bunched his muscles and gave a huge buck, unseating the Orc so it crashed sideways. Instantly he was on his feet and kicked the Orc in the chin so it flew backwards. Violence possessed him. Rage that he had never known. It was as if something inside him had unfrozen and kindled and now ran like fire in his veins, some revenge for the savagery done to Anglach, for the terrible threat and fear for Laersul.

He knocked the orc to the ground and jabbed his broken fingers in its eyes, uncaring of the pain, using it to fill him with rage. Twisted and dug so it screamed and tore at his face. He crushed its arm with his knee and with one hand digging into its eye sockets, with his free hand he grasped its throat and squeezed with all his might. Red flooded his vision and he saw the Orc's mouth open gasping. The jelly of its eyeballs slid beneath his fingers and he gouged it out, squeezed and the roar of blood in his ears drowned out the screaming of the orc, the shouting. He lifted his hand from the orc's throat, his fingers still grasped about its windpipe and ripped, so that the tubes and strings of its throat came away in his hand and the burbling rattle of the orc finally stilled.

When he shoved himself to his feet, looking around wildly for the next orc, he saw only the shocked faces of the Rohirrim. Slowly, his breathing calmed and the roar of blood in his ears stopped pounding. He felt a heavy, square hand on his shoulder and turned his face, blinking and stunned, towards Gimli. The dwarf's face was sober and kindly.

'Stop now, Legolas. You have done enough.'

He looked down to see black fluid stained his fingernails and bits of jelly and skin flecked his tunic, his hands. There was a taste of iron on his lips.

'They have killed Laersul,' he said dully. 'They have killed my brother.' And Theliel…It was all true. Saruman had not lied.

0o0o0o

Gimli wrote in his careful, neat hand. Pen scratched on the parchment. He was meticulous in his reports to Aragorn and detailed the route taken by the Orcs, how many had been killed and a brief description of any common features, such as the Eye or other insignia. These had a strange emblem on their coarse bucklers, a sign that resembled the Khazad cuneiform letter K, but it was strange and he had never seen it before.

I am also worried about Legolas, he added as a postscript. It seems an orc goaded him with more lies about Mirkwood, the Wood. It told Legolas his brother had been killed and Legolas has taken it to mean that those lies Saruman sent him all that time ago in Orthanc are true and that he saw what had been done to his brother. I beg you, Aragorn, send urgent messages to Thranduil that will belie these falsehoods and give him peace. The long war and the effect perhaps of his injury, the sea longing and other events have begun to take their toll upon him.

Gimli chewed the end of his pen and frowned. He was not the only one to witness Legolas' violence against the orc; it was reminiscent of Elrohir's cruelty to the orc all those months ago when they searched the banks of the Bruinen and Elrohir had impaled the beast still alive, its cries of agony disturbing every one of them with the cruelty and inhumanity of the deed. And Legolas had ended it.

The same Legolas who had gouged the eyes of an orc and ripped out its throat, who looked about to reach into its chest and eat its heart for the wild savagery in the elf's face, a savagery that Gimli had never seen before in the elf. Only in Orcs. And in Elrohir.

He sighed and looked down at the message but how could he put into words what he felt, what he had seen and now he dreaded? Perhaps now, with the Quest over and Sauron destroyed, Legolas thought to be revenged for his childhood friend that Gimli knew had been savagely slaughtered in order that Smeagol escaped? Perhaps the elf had just seen too much? Perhaps he was just war-weary. Gimli felt it himself, the Ring had worn them thin, their kindness even with each other by the end, exhausted, their tolerance and sense of justice long gone maybe in the depths of war. These are only orcs, Gimli told himself. These are not Men. As if that justified the savagery. There was the severed head of an orc stuck on a lance a way off. It had been put there by one of the Rohirrim.

Even so, Gimli was not the only one who was disturbed by Legolas' violence. Eomer was here and kept glancing over towards Legolas, the concern and yearning clear. The firelight flickered over his face now and he flung a stick onto the fire and looked away.

Gimli harrumphed into his beard and chewed the end of pen again. It had frayed slightly and he shook the bitter taste from his mouth.

Apart from that, this particular band of orcs is scattered and headed north. But many have been killed or are lost in the marshes. Eomer has ordered us back, he wrote but he did not say that Legolas had looked at Eomer when he gave the order to decease pursuit as though he might kill the Rohan King. He did not say that Legolas had thrown down his knives in disgust at the Rohan King's feet and all but spat at him, turning away in disgust to watch those orcs that escaped across the Dead Marshes. He had shouted something after them in his own language but Gimli could not recognize any of the words. But he was sure it was a curse.

Gimli however, was not the only one relieved to turn back and not brave the Marshes. Gimli glanced away towards the northern edge of the camp. He could see the elf's outline lit dimly by stars, his face turned away towards the edge of the great forest that was just out of distance, out of reach. And he understood. For his own home lay that way and how easy would it be to call to Legolas and the pair of them mount Arod and just ride away, on and on until they came to the brown lands of Rhovanion and its rolling hills and grasslands. From there they would trek along the edge of the Great Wood and far north until they came to Sigin- zâram, the Long Lake…and there….

Gimli paused for a moment.

There they would part company.

Aye. There's the rub, he thought. He was not quite ready for that. He was not quite ready to part company with the Hobbits, and Aragorn and Gandalf and the son of Thranduil. He smiled to himself. Indeed, he was not. And that meant putting this nonsense out of Legolas' head and getting some dwarvish good sense in there instead.

He humphed, and scribbled another line, then blew on the ink and folded the parchment. He did not bother with wax or even string for he had written in Khuzdul, knowing that Aragon had quite a good understanding of runes, shocked though he was to begin with that a Man could read the secrets of the Khazad, but Gandalf could help with anything he did not know. And there was always Elrohir, whose knowledge of khuzdul and the khazadmêk, was both a comfort to him that there was someone else who understood, and a terror to Gimli that someone outside Erebor knew so much.

He pushed himself to his feet with grunt, for he was stiff as an elf's neck and had a slight injury besides.

'Do not stray too far, Master Gimli,' Eomer looked up as he spoke. The firelight gilded his skin and hair so he looked made of copper and bronze. But his words were not really for Gimli, they both knew. For Legolas stood at the very edge of the firelight, straining forwards as if he might take flight and soar into the night sky and head unerringly for home.

Gimli nodded at Eomer. 'My thanks for your concern. But I have my own and I know how to keep my head.'

Eomer shrugged and stared morosely into the fire. He had become quieter and more miserable the longer he was in Legolas' company, Gimli thought as he picked his way between the other small fires that marked their camp. Arod snorted softly to him as he passed, and he fished about in his pocket, brought out the stump of a carrot and gave it to the horse, which took it gently. Its soft thick lips nibbled at his fingers delicately and he rubbed its forehead. 'Great thick beast,' he said fondly. He turned towards Legolas then and approached the elf slowly.

'It is quiet now,' he said by way of conversation. Legolas slid a look towards him but did not speak.

They stood together but Gimli did not feel it was companionable; it was like the beginning of the quest once more when he found the elf cold and aloof. It was as if he did not know him at all.

'That orc…' he began.

'I know what you would say,' Legolas interrupted immediately. 'Do not.'

'…lies,' Gimli finished nonetheless. 'As did Saruman. We found him out in Orthanc. He lied about everything.' He remembered well standing at the foot of the tower of Orthanc, and Saruman coming to the narrow balcony to speak to the assembled Men. Like Gandalf he had seemed at first and yet unlike, but he met them courteously and as one aggrieved.

They had stood before Orthanc like vagabonds and thieves, for that is how they felt, every last man of them. Gimli though was stalwart and on his guard against the tall stately man who stood, leaning slightly on his staff, for he appeared old and perhaps frail. His face was gentle and his eyes mild, like a gentler Gandalf.

'Remember how Saruman told us that he was glad to see Gandalf hale? That he regretted the way they parted?' His voice had been resonant, mellow and compelling, Gimli remembered; the words he spoke had sunk into each of their consciousnesses, so they believed what he said, wanted to trust him. 'He said to Theoden that he was bewitched by you, by the Lady. That the Shadow of the Wood might well be at Rohan's door next,' Gimli reminded Legolas. 'Remember how he seemed? How reasonable he was, how he made it seem that we were the aggressors?'

'If this is lies, how is it an Orc from Mordor says the same as an Orc in Rohan or a wizard in Orthanc?' Legolas demanded. 'If it is lies, why do they all say this?'

'I said then and I say now,' Gimli growled and he stamped first one foot, then the other in the iglishmêk, sign for unmoving though there were none who would recognize it for what it truly was. 'The words of Saruman stand on their heads. Deceiver and Liar!'

Legolas' eyes were fixed upon him, urgent and demanding but desperate for Legolas looked to him for his steadfastness

Gimli breathed in deeply.. 'I do not believe any of them. Your father met with Lord Celeborn under the trees. You have a letter written in your father's hand. He told you that he was well. He is alive.'

Legolas bowed his head and the deepest sigh came from his lips, as though misery was in his very soul. 'It is not only my father for whom I fear…My brother, Laersul…He is very like…And they hate him as much as they hate my father. He leads our men…'

Gimli could say nothing. He shook his head slowly and merely caught Legolas' hand in his own square, capable hands and squeezed. 'It faces us all but that is no comfort.' He wavered himself then for he had not been immune to the lies told either, for there was truth within the fabric of sorcery conjured by Saruman; the Mountain was beset. His people were under attack. Some would die.

He looked north and stood with Legolas under the cold bright stars that were in unfamiliar places but still shone on his own Mountain.

'Shall we mount Arod and just head North, Legolas?' he murmured. 'For my people suffer too. And likely my own kin have died. Shall we abandon Aragorn and the Hobbits and head home?'

Legolas did not speak but his head was high and his shoulders tight and tense. He shifted forwards on the balls of his feet and for a moment seemed like he would just stretch out his arms and leapt into the air as if the wind could take him north. He was poised like this for a moment and then slowly, he took a breath, and lowered his head and the wired tension that had strung him left, his shoulders slumped, head bowed.

'We will stay. You are right. Lies and more lies from the Deceiver.' He turned to Gimli and his eyes were bright. 'You are my rock, my steadfast friend.' His hand was warm on Gimli's shoulder. 'Saruman wove those visions to unsettle us and revenge himself upon me. I have let him beguile me. But no longer. I will listen to you for your words and I will stay true to Aragorn as I have for all the journey. This I swear to you, Elvellon. Whatever, we will stay true to Aragorn.' He did not smile and his words wound tightly about Gimli's heart so he had to press his lips together to stop from bursting with love. For he did love Legolas, his comrade and brother. He patted Legolas' arm.

'Then come back to camp. They are anxious for you, my dear friend.'

This time he returned and threw himself beside the campfire. Eomer glanced up briefly, he could not help himself. Gimli saw how his gaze flickered over Legolas and then tore away back to the fire. But Legolas sat directly opposite him and Eomer frowned, trying to keep his gaze fixed on the fire.

Legolas flicked a twig into the fire and flames sputtered and hissed into the darkness. His long eyes were green and clear. Gimli shook his head and rubbed a hand over his own eyes.

'I am tired,' he confessed. 'Keeping your pointy-eared head on its shoulders is hard work.'

Legolas lifting his eyes to Gimli, found Eomer's instead and paused there, meeting the young Man's hurt and vulnerable gaze. The elf smiled tentatively and this time, despite himself, Eomer smiled back.

'My axe took the heads of more orcs than you were even aware of!' Gimli boasted loudly, knowing it was wanted, expected and seeing the thaw, took advantage and declared loudly, 'My count was twenty-three to your thirteen.'

True to form, Legolas was completely distracted by the outrageous boast. 'Thirteen?' he exclaimed. 'I have never heard it said of a dwarf that he had lost his ability to count! That many alone I took before ever even getting down from Arod!'

'Exactly. So they count as Arod's score and not yours. You cannot have those.' Gimli made sure he looked properly affronted.

Before long, they were in full scale bicker and Gimli was delighted that Eomer was joining in and laughing.

By the time the fire had dwindled and only cinders glowed in amongst the ash, Eomer was relaxed and Legolas had shuffled closer to him. The two were talking quietly, but companionably and that dreadful hurt tension between them had eased, for now at least.

Tomorrow they returned to Cormallen, thought Gimli. They would be there by midday if they rose with the sun. He pulled his blanket and cloak over his shoulder and with a faint grin to himself, he lay his head on his pack as a hard pillow and immediately fell asleep.

0o0o

Eomer smiled at Legolas, hearing the dwarf immediately begin to snore softly. He felt the heat from Legolas' body close to him, the familiar flare of lust in his belly, the heat pooling in his groin. This was his last chance, he knew. By the afternoon they would be back with the King, and Legolas would have returned to Elrohir.

But Legolas seemed unaware, leaning back on one elbow and his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankle. Firelight gleamed on his long, long hair like wintergrass on the plains and Eomer thought of those nights where he had stretched out similarly but his skin bare and gleaming in firelight, the wild colour over his shoulder and torso and curling about his lean hips, his strong thigh…Eomer closed his eyes for a moment, pressed his mouth closed to stop the words escaping.

'Remember Helm's Deep?' he said helplessly.

Legolas lifted his long green eyes to Eomer, his full lips moved slightly, parted and for a moment he seemed about to speak but then he looked away again, his gaze slipping back to the fire. But his long fingers twitched.

'How could I not?' Legolas said at last.

Eomer held his breath; did he hear rightly? Legolas could not forget either? Hope broke in his chest and he leaned forwards remembering the breathless affirmation of life after that battle where hope seemed so lost and all believed they would die. The small dusty room, Legolas stretched out like he was now, firelight flickering over him.

The flames reflected in his eyes and he looked otherworldly, strange. As he had when Eomer first met the elf.

'I told you,' Legolas said quietly, but so factually. 'I will never forget. You will live on in my memory long after and in all my days, I will keep that memory precious as it is to me.'

Eomer heart thumped in his chest. 'Then…what does that mean?' he asked with wild hope fluttering in his chest.

Opposite him, Legolas raised his head and met Eomer's hopeful gaze. But his face was serious and his eyes were too kind to bear. 'Ah, Eomer. You are the King. You must find yourself a wife, from a suitable House, have children. Heirs. Neither of us can give the other what he needs.'

'And what do you need?' Eomer could not help the bitterness in his voice.

Legolas' face softened and he looked back into the fire. 'I am cold,' he said. 'Elrohir is fire. He warms me.'

Eomer felt the bitterness in his heart then, and jealousy of Elrohir that he thought he had conquered. But it was still there; even though he knew what he had with Legolas was fleeting. The Elf had been honest with him, he knew. He remembered what he had said to Legolas on the edges of Rohan before they parted at the Paths of the Dead, It is what it is, that he understood, he had meant it. He had meant it then, but now, he wondered if his heart would ever recover.

Eomer struggled to his feet and moved away from the warmth of the fire, feeling the cold wind around his legs. He stumbled away from the fire and pulling his thick cloak about him, went over to his sentry who turned as if he had no idea what had passed.

'Go and sleep,' he told him. 'I cannot and the one of us at least may rest.'

The Man nodded thankfully, stifling a yawn and stumbled off to join the huddled groups of Men and Eomer turned towards the East, wishing for dawn as he had at Helm's Deep.

He turned his head briefly and saw the silhouette of Legolas against the fire. He was very still, head slightly bent and long legs still stretched out, leaning on one elbow. And he was still there when the sun cracked a long line of daylight over the horizon.

o0o0o


	8. Chapter 8 Aboard the Elendil

Chapter 8: On board the Elendil

Back in Cormallen, plans were afoot for the King to return and claim the White City. Messengers had been travelling along the old road to Osgiliath and along the banks of the Anduin into Ithilen to the fields of Cormallen where Aragorn had settled to ensure Mordor was well and truly routed and Sauron's armies gone. Warm words had been exchanged between Faramir and Aragorn, reaffirming the trust that had been established when Aragorn had healed the young Man. Merry was particularly pleased and felt he had actually made an important contribution with his own carefully worded letter to Faramir extolling Aragorn's virtues and his keenness to acknowledge Faramir and his importance to Gondor. Merry also sent a note to Eowyn, for he felt she had been overlooked in this and he wanted to make sure she was recovering. Her note, when it arrived however, was happy to hear that he was well but her words seemed tired to him, and a little forlorn so when the King decided that Gandalf and Imrahil should go ahead and prepare the city for Aragorn's return, Merry begged passage with them and it was granted.

The King decreed that those still wounded would also go so they could be better cared for in the Houses of Healing; although there were healers in the camp, no field hospital could ever replace the resources and facilities of the city. Deemed one of that number, Elrohir had been told by Aragorn in no uncertain terms and in front of the King's Council that he was to go also, and though he chafed at the direction he would not gainsay Aragorn in his new role or do anything that might undermine him.

So the first ship was readied. It was a large carak named The Elendil, with three masts and both fore and aft-castles. It was an impressive sight as she hoved alongside the pier at Cormallen which had been restored in these peaceful weeks. Great ropes were slung over the bollards and the ship was moored slowly against the pier. For a full day, first light until well past sunset, carts trundled up to the wide gangplank and the crew loaded the ship with as much cargo as she could carry, emptying the great pavilions of the heavy furniture, silver, glass and china. And then the pavilions themselves were taken down and loaded onto the ships. This took a full day before the passengers even embarked.

But at last The Elendil was ready. It was a bright April morning that saw the passengers embark. The hobbits stood on the quay to wave Merry off and nearby Aragorn stood with Gandalf and Elrohir. All was bustle and noise around them with sailors calling to one another, loading the last few bits of luggage and the final stores were carried on. There were crowds of Men clustered on the quay, either waiting to board or seeing their friends and comrades off. It had a festive air and was full of hope and excitement, for those who were left behind now expected to return home soon. Already other ships were being readied and the horses were being sent off on their way home by road with a few Men to guard and herd them back along the road to Osgiliath. It was expected that within the week, the field of Cormallen would be emptied and all returned to the city.

Elrohir leaned on his cane thinking how the ship seemed to strain at its ropes and the sails shiver like it was eager to be off. The passengers were boarding now; the wounded first. About twenty or more Men limped or were carried on. The gulls cried and mewled on the wind that shivered over the water.

'There is Baelderon, 'Aragorn said, nodding towards the Dúnadan. He was limping heavily and leaned upon a crutch, but that was not his true injury. Aragorn sighed and squinted against the sun. 'He is still lost in grief. The loss of Cordobad and Halbarad are heavy upon him.'

He turned his head to see that Elladan came walking towards them through the gathered crowd. Men parted for him as he approached for he was tall and his handsome face and ready smile had already won over the hearts of the Men of Gondor. He carried his sable cloak slung over his arm for the air was mild and the sun warmed them. At his hip was his white sword in its jeweled scabbard.

Elrohir frowned a little at the sight of the sword at Elladan's hip for here in the well-guarded camp, they had felt safe enough to forbear arms; the orcs were dispersing and Sauron's armies defeated.

'Will you give him healing while you are aboard?' Aragorn said, interrupting his thoughts.

It took a moment for Elrohir to realise that Aragorn still spoke of Baelderon and he nodded. 'Of course.' He looked at his foster brother's anxious face, the lines around his grey eyes. 'But you also grieve their loss,' he said gently and rested his hand upon Aragorn's shoulder. 'You need some healing too. Will you not speak with Elladan whilst I am away?'

Elladan shifted his cloak on his arm. 'He will not be able to for I am going with you,' he said.

It should not have mattered. It should have delighted him, not wrenched his heart as it did. But Elrohir stared at him for a moment but Elladan had already turned his head towards the ship and there was Imrahil already aboard. The wind blew his brown hair back from his face and the sun was in his eyes. He shaded his eyes with his hand and his strong face broke into a smile at the sight of Elladan.

'Are you to travel with us, my lord?' he called to Elladan over the excited noise of the passengers boarding and the cries of the sailors and gulls. He came down the gangplank and clasped Elladan's arm as he came aboard. Elrohir's heart clenched at the joy in his brother's eyes that was met with a smile from Imrahil that blazed across his handsome face.

0o0o

At last the ship slid away from its moorings to catch the tide, it turned slightly and then lurched as it caught the waves and then surged ahead, slicing through the deep dark water of the Anduin as it flowed to the Sea.

Elrohir breathed in the cold air that was heavy with salt and spray, tasted it on his lips and felt it sting his skin. The wind was pounding up from the sea and fought against them. Though this was a river, the waves rolled and the ship swayed as the wind buffeted them, blew through the rigging and sails, bowling them along the water, whistling through the ratlines. Above him the white gulls skittered across a sky heavy with cloud. Elrohir stood on the deck, watching the crew as they scurried about the ship, clinging to the rigging or pulling on the stays to drop the sails, hauling the great canvas down to slow the ship before the storm caught them.

'It is a bracing wind,' a voice spoke beside him. Imrahil stood casually, for all the world as if it were a sunny day in a garden. His feet were slightly apart and he rocked easily with the plunge and rise of the ship, the wind tearing his brown shoulder length hair back from his lean, handsome face. He was obviously used to the sea, thought Elrohir. A sailor.

He did not reply but turned his face towards the south, hearing the great sough of the wind, the plunging waves.

'I will be careful with you brother's heart,' Imrahil said suddenly, unexpectedly and Elrohir clenched his fists, not through anger but in pain and misery. 'I understand what it means.'

'You have no idea what it means!' Elrohir glared at the Man, breathing hard, knuckles clenched over the top of the cane to stop himself from violence.

'I begin to,' Imrahil said with great gentleness and compassion. 'I care deeply for Elladan. I do not wish to cause him pain.'

'And yet you will,' Elrohir said tightly. 'He will not thank me for speaking my mind. I will remove myself so I do not offend any longer.' He bowed stiffly. 'I bid you goodnight.'

He turned and drove himself back below decks, wanting to escape before he spoke too much and broke the ever-thinning bond between himself and Elladan.

He paused before the door to the cabin he shared with Elladan, and hearing his brother within, the quiet sounds of his moving about, he stepped away. He could not bear to face Elladan right now, he would say things he would regret, push him away further and further.

He stumped his way deeper into the belly of the ship, found himself in the hold, thrust between the chests and wrapped possessions of those aboard and found a space where he could sit upon a wooden chest and drown in his own misery, his self-pity he told himself in anger and disgust. Selfishly begrudging his brother the same chance at happiness that he had, he told himself. Selfish. Mean-spirited. He should rejoice. But his heart ached with the misery; for in finding Legolas and knowing his own Choice, he had lost Elladan in his. They would be parted until the ending if the world. And suddenly he felt the greatest pity for his father, for he had also lost his twin, his foster-fathers both more loved than his own father ever was, his wife, his daughter. His son. His most beloved son, for Elrond had always preferred Elladan, he told himself.

He sighed and drew his finger in the dust on the lid of the chest upon which he sat, faintly surprised at how dry and dusty it was. He supposed this was where cargo was stored and valuable as it was, the captain would ensure it was protected from the damp. It smelled of tar and salt. His cane rested against his thigh and around him were strange dim shapes. There was a heavy oak table and a number of wooden chairs that he recognised had been used in one of the King's pavilions. Rolls of carpets and rugs leaned against the side of the hold and any number of wooden chests were stacked carefully together. And in the farthest end of the hold, pushed back and carefully swathed in sackcloth was a tall rectangular object. Taller than he and wider but thin. A glimpse of white peeked out where the sackcloth had come undone.

Elrohir became very still.

It was the Mirror, swathed by Gandalf's white cloak, suffused with magic and suppressing the Mirror's own power. And covered then with sackcloth to disguise it.

The Mirror from Minas Morgul was here. On this ship with him.

Gandalf must have brought it in secret, he thought in horror and he visualised the terrible scenes in Phellanthir; the glass bowled and stretched and filled with fire. The Balrog's trumpeting bellow of rage, how it had moved and battered the thin film of the Mirror, and its thin surface bulged and undulated like the skin of water. Within, a great shape struggled and fought. Flames roared and blazed along its skin, and its great horns were blackened, wings of fire spread and filled the Glass. Its colossal fists were clenched and battered the Glass that bent and flexed like a skin and did not break.

He stared. Unable to move.

There was no fiery glow or red light seeping from the sackcloth. All was utterly silent and still. Yet the darkness pressed against him, and around the Mirror it was deeper. Not just the darkness of the hold but almost an absence of light and a deepening of the shadows. Did he see a trembling in the dark, like the ripple of wind over water?

He thought of the horror of Angmar as he challenged him on the flat, moonlit marshes of Phellanthir…

Angmar is gone, he reminded himself. They are all gone, into the Void where none can reach them. But he felt as if he were in soft, deep sand, slowed and heavy. His hand clutched the edge of the wooden chest as if it might stop him from drowning and his other arm hung heavily by his side.

Yes, more like deep water than sand, he thought dully. I feel like I am drowning and cannot lift my arms to save myself.

The air was ice-cold and the darkness seemed to intensify. His hand reached heavily for his sword but he had left Aícanaro in his cabin, carefully wrapped in oilskin to prevent the blade from rusting the salt air. Instead he gripped the ebony cane that he had rested against the chest when he sat down and froze, so he could hear a breath, the scuff of feet on wood…or the trail of thin black shrouds in the dust…

He barely breathed, barely moved.

And then suddenly the rattle of claws scratching over the wooden chests. He moved his head slightly. A rat scuttling through the hold. Nothing more.

The thin light from above cast long shadows that seemed to reach for him and Elrohir was reminded of the flat grey marshes of Phellanthir, how the cold, thin presence of the Wraiths had emerged slowly from the pouring rain. And the Witch King of Angmar had stood taller than any Man, utterly still, his iron crown spiked in the grey dusk.

Angmar had raised his mailed fist and opened it up, palm outwards towards Elrohir, inviting him to approach. The empty hood beneath the iron crown had tilted slightly to one side in a gesture that Elrohir found unbearable and he knew now it was a parody of Legolas.

 _You acquiesce,_ Angmar had sneered.

 _I do,_ Elrohir had replied desperately, for his brother's life, for Elladan.

 _You acquiesce still._

Dread grew in the pit of his belly; his blood slowed and grew cold.

Did the darkness tremble around the edges of the Mirror? He thought something coiled around his ankle, felt the slide of something beneath his feet and forced himself to his feet in horror, shuddering but it felt like he was bound in heavy chains, or asleep and in a nightmare from which he could not awaken. He stumbled backwards away from the Mirror, crashing heavily into the carved oak table, the wooden chests piled up one upon another. He reached out to steady himself and his hands caught something bony, cold. He turned in terror and fear but it was just the back of one of the chairs. Stumbling and fearful he crashed his way out of the hold and slipped on the wet rungs of the ladder into the hold. Rain soaked his face, his hands and the slippery wood. He threw himself upwards, dreading a bony hand around his ankle, an iron blade in his ribs. He fled.

At last he clambered back onto deck where the rain poured and made everything soaked and slippery. A sailor bumped into him, blind in the rain and wind and Elrohir wanted to hug him so glad he was to be above in the clean, cold air. He leaned over the side of the ship, gasping in the salt, cold wind, the blinding rain.

The Mirror was below, wrapped and shrouded in magic and enchantment. Gandalf was aboard and had the keeping of it, he told himself. It was just his imagination and foolish self-pity that had lent the Mirror a power if did not have. After all, no Balrog had strained against the glass, no bellow or roar. There was nothing sinister about this Mirror. Nothing had happened, when Legolas had found it, or when Gandalf had brought it out of the tower. Nothing had happened in Cormallen so why would anything happen now?

No. He had imagined everything. Here in the cold air and wind and rain, standing amongst Men, he could shake his head at his own foolishness. It was the lingering of the Black Web still in his veins, he told himself.

At last he determined to join Elladan, apologise and seek to understand his brother. But Elladan's narrow cot was empty and cold and Elrohir guessed where he had gone. So he lay himself down to sleep.

Above deck he could hear the shouts of the sailors and the plough of the ship through water, rising and falling. The ship's boards creaked and metal clanked somewhere above. The ship was on its way, sliding through the deep water, dark under the sky and white gulls flew and scurried on the wind around the sails and mast. He fell asleep to the murmur of the waves and the rise and fall of the ship, like breathing.

0o0o


	9. Chapter 9 News from home

Chapter 9: News from home.

Gimli clung tightly to Eomer as they cantered through the trees and over green meadows of Ithilien. It was green, Gimli thought grumpily, because it rained so much. Grey clouds bowled over the hills and rain poured over the Men and horses so their hides were sleek and the Men's cloaks dripped and soaked through. Gimli was grateful at least that he was protected from the worst of it by huddling behind Eomer.

He glanced through the rain over to the edges of the company where Legolas rode, no cloak, face lifted up to the rain as if it were sunshine; but he did not sing as he would have done before, if only to irritate Gimli. No, his face was set and hard for he was angry that Eomer had chosen to return rather than pursue the remaining orcs into the Dead Marshes. Legolas was not the only one to drag his feet and cry out for longer pursuit; there were plenty of Rohirrim who had lost those they loved or seen things too dreadful to speak of on the little farmsteads and villages of Rohan. But Eomer was right of course, Gimli nodded to himself. They risked too much by pursuing the orcs and they could not do so on horseback. Added to that, Gimli did not think it would have done Legolas any good whatsoever in his fey state of mind, for the stories told of the dead men and elves in the pools of the marshes only alarmed the dwarf and he thought Legolas might well follow some will o' the wisp and be lost. Especially after he had turned so savage and cold in the last skirmish.

In truth, Gimli had been a little frightened by the cold wrath and savagery he saw in Legolas. Not for himself but for his friend. If it had been Elrohir, no one would have thought anything of it. But it had been Legolas who had put the orc out of its misery all those months ago in Eriador when they had tracked the Nazgûl before the Fellowship had even been chosen. Gimli worried at the end of his beard.

No, he told himself. Best off going home, seeing Aragorn and letting Elrohir calm Legolas and get him back in the land of the living.

They plodded through the rain over a rise in the road and suddenly there below them was the camp of Cormallen.

Eomer pulled up and Gimli peered from behind a little irritably because it was harder to look round Eomer than Legolas; the Man was just bulkier and had more stuff on than Legolas ever wore. Why he had to have armour and a cloak which dripped onto Gimli, AND a quiver, sword, shield, Gimli grumbled mentally and wondered why he hadn't just stuck with Legolas.

He was shocked for a moment for the colourful pavilions were gone, and only a small collection of tents remained, and a few Men milled about between the tents. Where the herd of horses had been, there was nothing, and the once lush grass had been churned into mud in the rain.

Legolas shaded his eyes with his long hand, his skin wet. 'There are Pippin, and Sam…. They do not seem distressed.'

A cart seemed to have got stuck in the mud down there and several Men gathered round to help push it. They could hear them shouting to each other. And then it seemed the news of their arrival must have reached the camp for faces turned towards them and in spite of the weather, sudden excitement rippled through what was left of the camp.

'There are many ships sailing downriver,' Legolas told them and they turned their eyes to see a fleet of ships in the near distance as if they had not long left. They were making their way to Osgiliath, Gimli realised.

'They are moving the camp,' he said, mentally kicking himself for not working that out.

'Then Aragorn must be returning to the city,' Eomer said and urged Firefoot forwards.

The troop followed, their horses' ears pricked and their heads up now that they were home.

Most of the remaining Men gathered to greet the returning Éored and Dúnedain. Gimli waved to Pippin and Sam who were waiting excitedly.

Gimli slid from Firefoot's back, Eomer lending him a hand and found himself ankle deep in mud but he cared not for it was uncomfortable riding behind the saddle bumping along like so much baggage. He squelched through the mud, happy nonetheless to be on his two feet on the earth and the good rock and stone beneath, and greeted the hobbits.

Pippin was sliding towards them and waving in excitement. 'Gimli! Legolas!' The rain had plastered his hair round his face.

Legolas slid from Arod's back and patted him while the hobbits edged their way through the column of Rohirrim. Arod followed the last horse gloomily, head low and plodding, leaving Legolas and Gimli to greet Sam and Pippin.

'Welcome back,' cried Sam, and Gimli was delighted to see how much better the little gardener looked. He had his Lorien cloak pulled close over his head and round his shoulders.

'Have you had breakfast?' Pippin asked immediately. 'We are just on our way to elevenses.' He ran a finger round his teeth. 'We had some very nice bacon this morning. With eggs and mushrooms and tomatoes. They had those little loaves you like, Legolas.'

Gimli laughed. 'Well now, master hobbits, I have certainly had First breakfast but not second, although I need to get out of these wet clothes and find Aragorn first and then will join you I think. What say you, Legolas?'

Legolas was looking away towards the river as if distracted.

Pippin gave the elf a worried look then and touched Legolas' arm. 'Legolas, before you go looking, Elrohir has gone with Merry back to Minas Tirith. He was sent with Gandalf and Merry to greet Faramir and make sure everything was ready for Aragorn's return.' He looked up anxiously at Legolas, who glanced down briefly and then silently turned his face west again.

Gimli gave him a quick look and said nothing but he grabbed at the ends of his beard and worried at them.

'I knew he was no longer here,' Legolas said and his voice was distant. 'I could not hear him.' But he did not say what he meant by that and Gimli decided that it meant that Legolas was perfectly well without Elrohir…Except it would have helped to have Elrohir adding his voice to Gimli's that all Saruman dealt in was lies.

Rain ran off the sides of the pavilions and into the narrow paths between, making the mud slippery and deep in places. Gimli found himself clinging to Legolas as he slipped and slid after the hobbits. It was the not the first time that Gimli thought hobbits' feet gave them an advantage over his sturdy boots. But he would not admit that Legolas seemed to tread upon the mud and leave barely a mark or that his boots had only a light scuff where Gimli's were covered in soft, wet mud. It was not the first time either, that he had remarked that Legolas' tunic seemed to repel the weather like nothing he had ever seen. It irritated him unreasonably.

'Aragorn has had messages from the North,' Sam said over his shoulder and Gimli grunted that he had heard. 'There was news that the Shire has been unscathed, but that Rivendell was attacked.'

'Rivendell?' exclaimed Legolas in surprise as if he had awakened from a dream. 'That is news indeed. I did not think Sauron would dare try his strength against Elrond unless he had the Ring itself.'

'I suppose there was war everywhere,' said Pippin sadly. 'There were no dwarves among the messengers, I'm afraid, Gimli, or elves. But perhaps they brought letters from the Lonely Mountain and the Wood.'

Gimli's heart raced at the news that there were messengers from the North. No dwarves did not mean there were no messages. Legolas had straightened too and exchanged a glance with Gimli.

'Any crumb of news will be welcome,' Legolas said hopefully. 'I hope that there are messages from my father and brothers.' He looked a little forlorn then and Gimli crossed his fingers in an ancient prayer and hoped with all his heart that there was, and that it was good news for all of them.

'Then we will go straight to Aragorn and wait to get dry and fed. My heart aches to hear from my kin,' Gimli said.

But when they arrived at Aragorn's tent, much smaller and less imposing than the great pavilion of before for that too had been packed up and sent to Minas Tirith, he was in council and would not be finished until a little later. But the equerry who spoke to them assured them that the King would finish early in order to greet them.

'You may as well come to Second Breakfast then,' Sam invited them and Pippin gave them a wide grin.

'I am going to get dry first,' said Gimli determinedly. He thought briefly about intruding upon Aragorn and demanding their letters but Aragorn was so new to his role and there would be those who pounced on every sign of weakness.

So, in a smaller tent than he had had before and was now back to sharing with Legolas, Gimli peeled off his sopping wet clothes, right down to his small clothes and dried himself in front of the small fire in the centre of the tent and watched the raindrops that came through the vent in the roof for smoke, sizzle on the logs. He shook his head. Really, Men did not seem able to make a fire that did not smoke, he thought. Sam and Pippin were to wait for them in the new dining tent. 'Not as big as the old one but there's more food and fewer people to feed,' Pippin had announced happily.

Gimli pulled on a blessedly warm and dry undergarments and shirt, breeches and wondered if he should try bare feet like the hobbits.

'Feet dry more quickly than boots.' Legolas quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head towards Gimli's own boots, thick with wet sludge as if he had read Gimli's own thoughts. Gimli hummed but was pleased that Legolas seemed himself again. And he too felt more comfortable and at ease. And the dining tent was very close by. In fact, the advantage of a much smaller camp, thought Gimli, was that everything was close by.

'What is that tent there?' he asked Legolas as they dashed from theirs to the dining tent. It was very small and two sentries stood miserably in the soaking rain.

Legolas shook his head. 'I am not sure. Perhaps there are still prisoners?' He was quiet for a moment and then he said, almost with relief, 'That Mirror is no longer here. I cannot feel it.'

Gimli glanced at him, a gnaw of fear in his bones. 'You cannot feel it?'

Legolas shook his head. 'No. It has gone.'

But before Gimli could ask if it felt like the Ring, they were at the entrance of the dining tent and Legolas ducked his head to go inside. But Gimli paused for a moment before he followed, pulling off his boots before he walked on the rushes and thick rugs.

Legolas was already sitting between the hobbits, his long legs stretched out and Pippin perched beside him, swinging his feet and talking excitedly. But though he seemed relaxed, Gimli thought Legolas looked pale and too still. He longs for news as do I, he thought.

'You were going to tell me about your brothers, Legolas. We talked about them before the Battle.' Pippin loaded a plate with bacon and eggs and mushrooms and fried potatoes for Gimli first and then Legolas.

'I have two brothers,' Legolas said with a small smile. 'Laersul- who is taller than anyone here, and very strong. He is the leader of our troops. Our people love him.' He paused. 'As do I. When Laersul is with you, you feel that you can never come to harm.'

"That's just how I feel about you, Legolas!' exclaimed Pippin.

Legolas looked surprised and pleased and almost ducked his head as if faintly embarrassed. Gimli's heart gave a fond squeeze of affection.

'He has just found his beloved.' Legolas smiled very slightly to himself at some memory. 'He kept her waiting for so long before he realized what everyone else had known for…years.' His voice caught them and Pippin looked up quickly. But Legolas swallowed and then continued with a forced brightness, 'And Thalos is my other brother. He can spin silk from a spider with his words.' He laughed softly. 'He is the captain of the East Bite. I served under him when I first went to the South with Anglach… Thalos would always let us have our leave at the same time.' Legolas looked down at his plate and after a moment, put his fork down. Then he asked brightly, too brightly thought Gimli, 'Do you have brothers, Pippin? Or sisters?'

'I do. I have three older sisters. Pearl, Pimpernel and Pervinca.' Pippin chattered on.

'Are they famous beauties?' Gimli asked, gallantly as always.

Sam looked uncomfortable and Pippin twitched a little.

'Well…Folk come from miles around to visit...And if Pimpernel does have rather smaller feet than Pearl, she is the kindest soul that ever lived.' He glared at Sam as if daring him to speak.

'That is true, Pip,' Sam nodded. 'And she can cook. She can bake the lightest cakes, iced with chocolate icing and walnuts. And her pastry melts in the mouth.' Sam looked dreamily.

'My lords?' A Man greeted them courteously, a little awed, and bowed low. 'The King asks that you join him. He has messages. From the North.'

Gimli looked up at Legolas. 'At last! We will have news of our kin!' He drained his tankard of ale and smacked his lips. 'I have only news that my father is still hale and well, but I long for news of my kin and friends. They will have fought before the gates of the Mountain.'

Legolas was quiet though and Gimli knew that he saw the yellow smoke curling through the burning trees, screaming, the gurgling growl of Orcs and goblins.

0o0o

They were escorted by the Man to a tent that was not as grand as before, but Legolas noted the two Gondorian soldiers standing to attention outside. It was a custom, he had observed, to stand guards outside the King's tent even though he was surrounded by an army.

Aragorn immediately came to greet them, clasping their arms and asking after the hunt.

'Well I have to credit Legolas with twelve,' Gimli said loudly, standing with his feet apart before the stove that had replaced the cheerful fire. It was cold, unlit on this April morning but still Legolas knew how mortals seemed to feel the cold even on such as day as this.

'Twelve?!' Legolas exclaimed but his heart was not in it. He simply wanted the letters. To put his heart at rest, he told himself. To hear that his father, Galion, both his brothers were safe.

Aragorn seemed to understand for he said, 'I have had letters from both Dain and Thranduil.'

Legolas felt a little sigh escape. From his father. A letter in his own hand. It meant that he at least was safe. But Laersul?

'Both realms have survived with losses on both parts I fear,' Aragorn went on. He stood beside his desk where a small pile of letters was perched on the corner. 'I do not know how heavy the losses I fear but Erebor is clear of Sauron's armies. They fell when Sauron did- it seems the goblins did not have enough will to fight on once he was gone…In the Wood there are skirmishes rather than battle. The Wood is burned, your father says.' He looked at Legolas. 'But he says it will recover.'

Aragorn picked up the small bundle of papers in his hand and he fidgeted with them awkwardly. Then held them out towards Legolas. 'There are messages here. For you and Gimli…. Personal ones.' He paused and then said, 'With news of home.'

Legolas stared at him and then at the letters. Almost trembling, he reached out and took them. Two had the hard runes of the Khazâd which he gave straight to Gimli and one was fastened with a thin red ribbon and the seal of the Wood. He could hardly wait and unravelled the ribbon and pulled the fine white parchment open.

The writing was in father's fine hand and even though Aragorn had told him his father was alive, seeing his writing made Legolas gasp in relief and he clutched the letter hard.

'Legolas? What news?' Aragorn leaned forward anxiously.

Legolas shook his head, tears blinded him and he glanced at Aragorn in relief. 'My father writes,' he said. 'I haven't even read it yet! It means he lives.'

He wiped his eyes unashamed and looked down at the script.

'My dearest Legolas,

'I hope with all my heart this finds you well and that means that you will soon be coming home; I wish to hasten your return of course, but you will represent me at Aragorn's coronation and I am proud that you will stand for the Wood in this new world. I know you will have acquitted yourself well and that you have shown all the Peoples of the World your quality and the quality of the folk of the Wood.

'Battle yet lingers here, skirmishes in the main for with Sauron gone, the Orcs seem to have lost their will. Even so, I will again lead our warriors out here in the north of the forest. Galion is here beside me and telling me what to write, so I am ignoring him.'

Legolas smiled, imagining the two of them, heads bent over this paper, Galion wittering in Thranduil's ear until he became irritated and snapped at Galion. But Galion would ignore him and carry on and surely…he turned over the letter and there was Galion's spidery script scribbled at the bottom.

He turned it back- he would read that later.

'But I know you will want news of your brothers, my heart. '

Here, there was a small blot, like Thranduil had rested his pen on the paper as if thinking how to write. Legolas' heart speeded a little. Sudden doubt crept into him.

Yellow smoke…. a body hoisted high…

He breathed in sharply, belly churned with anxiety.

'Thalos is safe, or at least he leads the last skirmishes in the South and I have heard no different.'

Thalos? If Thalos was leading then where was Laersul?

That yellow smoke…. golden hair like a pennant…Not Thranduil then…Not Thranduil…No.

'And Laersul…'

Legolas stilled. His heart gave a dreadful jump.

'…was injured in the assault upon Dol Guldur and had to be returned home. He has awoken now but has no memory of the attack. Galion says he has not been so grumpy since he was a small child and lost his mumakîl. But Laersul has never been grumpy.'

Legolas found himself weeping as he had not since a small child and Thranduil had shut himself away in his own grief. It was Laersul - strong, kind Laersul - who had lifted Legolas and held him against his chest, murmuring softly and stroking his hair, singing to him until the beat of that indomitable heart had enveloped him. The Song had curled around him and held him safe in those strong arms.

Gimli was on his feet in consternation and Aragorn took two strides over to Legolas and gripped him by the arms. 'Tell me!' he insisted. 'What news can bring you such desolation? Legolas! Speak to me!'

Legolas looked up at him through his tear-filled smile. 'Saruman lied. They are all alive. They all live. It was a lie, Gimli. You told me that. How did you know? All this time I have lived with it….' And suddenly he realised the immense pressure that had been building up inside him and it broke. He took a deep breath and tipped his head back so his hair streamed behind him and closed his eyes, glorying in the relief, his love for his home, his family. Elrohir. He could go to Elrohir now.

Later he read the whole letter once more. It was a long letter full of news. The Wood was still burning but the fires were under control and the Men of Dale and Esgaroth as well as some Dwarves from Erebor were helping get it under control. Thranduil wrote admiringly of the inventiveness of the dwarves who had constructed a device of iron and steel to pump water from the underground lakes to quench the flames nearest the stronghold. There was sad news too: amongst the dead was Lossar who had stood before a group of children and women to slow down the orcs and allow the group to escape. He was cut down before their eyes. And every child and every woman butchered.

Legolas could not read anymore for a moment. Lossar, with his slow, sensual smile and long dark hair. His quick wit. He wondered how Miriel was for she and Lossar had used to listen for each other's song, even when both of them twined about Legolas and the three of them had loved long and deeply. He knew that Lossar would not be the only one they lost and about whom he cared.

Galion had added, 'Write to us soon, little one. We are desperate to know you are safe and your father is a bear with not knowing. Sadly, Alagos did not perish and is taking this message to Lothlorien where someone more suitable will bring the message on, but come back to us. Ignore what your father says about staying any longer and come home. We miss you. I will make enough rabbit pie to keep you happy for months. And let us know soon that the rumours about you taking a dwarf to your bed are not true. That is too much, even for you, Legolas. I hope so anyway. Anyone else I would scoff at but with you I never really know. Laersul says to stay safe; he had some sort of premonition but we hear you are well and so it was a lie.'

Legolas kept the letter close and read it over and over. He wept for Miriel, sweet girl that she was, and for her always beloved Lossar. But Laersul was alive. And Thalos and his father and dear Galion. They were all safe.

0o0o0o


	10. Chapter 10 Dreams and Discoveries

Note: Reminder that in Through a Glass Darkly, Elladan had been wounded by a morgul blade and Elrohir offered himself to Angmar believing that he could bargain his own life and soul for Elladan's. Angmar sows a spell into Elrohir's soul that twists and distorts his sexuality and his memory of finding Celebrian in the dens of the orcs. And so he believed for centuries the lie that he had raped, or had been about to rape, his own mother, that he had ejaculated upon finding her. Legolas exposed the lie at the end of Sons of Thunder- but beliefs are not so easily unfixed and the mirror is aboard the ship.

Also, in Sons of Thunder, when Legolas was taken onto the Mindolluin (the mountain upon which Minas Tirith is perched)by Elrohir to lure the Nazgul into believing that Merry is the hobbit with the Ring, Khamûl was defeated and his ring was left on the mountainside. Elladan picked it up at first, and then cast it away.

Beta: the very wonderful Anarithilien.

Chapter 10: Dreams and Discoveries

It was a cloudy day on the Mindolluin. Bearas strode along the narrow goat track towards his snares, swinging the brace of conies he had already caught. Spring was late in the mountains and the air was still cold, a layer of snow gleamed in the sunlight on the mountain peak.

Ahead of him, the old goat track suddenly widened and Bearas stepped onto the old road that was no longer used by any but shepherds and goatherds, or hunters like himself. At his waist swung the conies and from his hand dangled a partridge, although it had broken his snare in trying to escape and he carried the snare with him to repair. He did not linger for the sun was low in the sky and he did not wish to be caught out in the night on this cold, bare mountain.

Bending down to his last snare, he quickly pulled the noose from the rabbits' flopped gently and his hands caressed the silky fur. He thought he would make a pair of gloves for his daughter from it now that the cold was coming. But the rabbits were smaller and skinnier than he had hoped. Enough for the pot though. And there was just enough of them to make a pair of gloves for his small daughter.

He wondered who else had been using the path for there were old tracks of horses, several, and travelling at speed, hunting perhaps in these woods upon the knees of the mountains. Higher up, he had come across an old fire, the stones blackened and burned and not just from the campfire; it looked as though lightning had struck several places in the clearing and one of the trees must have caught fire for the ground was scorched in strange lines, almost forming the shape of a eye. But he had not tarried long in that place for the air smelt metallic and the hair on the back of his neck had prickled like some unseen danger lurked in the shadows.

These were strange times, thought Bearas, as he strode down the narrow goat track homewards. The news that the war was over had even reached his little cottage in the mountains, although the city, Guthbrand had said, was in turmoil. Guthbrand had been returning to his mother's old farm in the mountains and told them how he had fought in the war, and that the old steward, Denethor, was dead. Burned alive, Guthbrand said, while the Nazgûl attacked the city, an orc army with Easterlings and mumâkils at the gates. Even stranger, a Man claiming to be Isildur's Heir had arrived at the head of Rohan's army and with an army of ghosts in his wake to drive off Mordor's forces. Bearas shook his head in amazement, for the truth was that none in Gondor had thought to live out the winter and here they were in Spring with Mordor defeated.

So it was said.

He hopped over a fallen tree and his snare caught in the branches. He turned to untangle the trap and as he did, something flashed in the mud, caught in the fading sun. Leaving the snare still tangled in the twigs, Bearas leaned down. His fingers scrabbled in the dirt and touched cold metal. A ring.

Old gold, worn thin. A red gem, dull with mud dried over its smooth surface. He rubbed his thumb over the glowed. Like an eye.

He looked at the ring. It must have been dropped by a lord long ago, for it looked very very old. Very worn. The gold was thin. Bearas was poor. He had never seen real gold. Perhaps the gem was a ruby? Perhaps he could sell the ring?

He dropped it into his pocket and turned back along the goat path that led down to the old road. It seemed suddenly darker. Twilight had fallen.

A grey shadow slunk between the grey trees. A wolf?

He hurried down the old road with its broken stones and moss covered statues long forgotten. Ahead, between the tall pines, were the distant white towers and spires of the city. The moon had risen early and gleamed upon the white stone so it shimmered eerily.

The wolf, if those shadows that had collected beneath the trees had been a wolf, had gone…But it seemed darker and the shadows reached like fingers groping.

Bearas felt afraid suddenly. His scalp tingled as the hair stiffened. He quickened his steps and as he hurried through the silent forest, a perfect round shape pressed against his breast and he remembered the ring he had picked up out here in the wilds. Old gold set with a dull red jewel. He wondered about the old Gondorian lord who must have dropped it out here hunting. But in his mind, there was an image conjured...an iron fortress hidden amongst the black mountains in the cold north, strong, and old…'Two of the brethren are with the Zigûrun...' he said softly, though he did not know what he meant or where the words came from, and his hand crept over his breast, the iron fortress again in his mind, hidden amongst the black mountain in the cold north, strong, and old…

Bearas shook himself and trotted quickly along the road, suddenly wanting company, wanting the warmth of a fire and his little girl's hand in his, his wife's smile.

When he got home, his little Gerda was waiting, swinging on the gate. She stroked the rabbit fur and looked up at her father trustingly, adoringly. And later, when she slipped the old gold ring over her little finger, he laughed when it fell off.

0o0o

Far away on the great Anduin, Elrohir awoke as if something had stirred him from disturbing dreams. The ship's bell had just sounded for midnight and all was quiet.

He lay for a moment, listening. There was no gentle breathing next to him; he was alone in the cabin as he had expected and wondered if Elladan was above deck or with Imrahil. It did not matter much either way; Elladan had sought better company and Elrohir did not blame him. _I am a bear,_ he told himself, _grumpy and out of sorts. No wonder he shuns me. No wonder Legolas has fled and hunts instead with the Dun_ _édain_ _._

 _Eomer hunts too,_ a nasty little voice in his head spoke. He shook it off. Legolas would not do anything to encourage Eomer. Legolas would do nothing to hurt him, or hurt Eomer either, he reminded himself and leaned back on his narrow bed that was not long enough for someone as tall as he. He thought of Legolas in these quiet moments, reminded himself of his easy elegance and grace, his indulgence, his delight and unapologetic lust that had liberated Elrohir from his own repressed horror. He loved Legolas so much it almost hurt.

From his perfect elven memory he took out an image of Legolas like a rare jewel and contemplated it; Legolas asleep, his eyes closed and his face slightly flushed, lips parted. Hair like the pale bleached grass that grew amongst the dunes of Belfalas spread over the pillow. Pale gold in the oil lamp. His lips were sensuous and full, and his strong face sculpted, but not like marble- that was too cold, too hard. Elrohir's chest felt like it would burst for love of him, and he found a smile upon his lips and a softness in his heart that had been so long absent in the long years of revenge and hate that he barely knew what to do with it.

Elrohir imagined, remembered brushing a finger lightly along the edge of Legolas' collar-bone and stroking the palm of his hand over the lean muscled chest; an archer's shoulders, arms, chest, nothing soft or weak. There were the symbols of his house. Elrohir recalled tracing them with his finger. And there was his name in runes, Laeglas, and the elegant patterns of oak and ash and beech. In green and gold, the runes on his arms melted into the swirl of colour that was his warrior's history… there the sign of the battles he had fought at Dol Guldur, and there, the dragon to show that Legolas was one of the Danedh-Amlung for he had told Elrohir of the dragon and how he had braved the darkness of Erebor. Elrohir's thoughts lingered on how the dragon swirled onto the shoulder and seemed to slither, to curl about Legolas' strong, lean torso, his lean hips and thigh.

It made Elrohir ache with need, swell with desire and his blood was hot with lust.

He remembered again Legolas' parted lips and the warm skin when he had touched the dragon, how he traced the swirl to his nipple and tightened his grip so Legolas whimpered and arched slightly. Legolas liked that, Elrohir thought. He liked the hard pinch of Elrohir's fingers on his nipple.

Elrohir's hand stroked himself, squeezed his fist around his own flesh. No quiet caress with Legolas or gentle touch but instead something wild, passionate, full of fire and aggression. He let himself slowly sink back onto the pillows and cushions piled up behind him and closed his eyes. His hands ghosted over himself and he thrummed at his own touch, panting he remembered again the sight of his beloved Legolas spread below him…his own hand moved up and down, stroking his own bulging length.

He imagined leaning in and feeling Legolas' breath warm on his own lips, a trace of a kiss, a light stroke of his tongue against his warm, eager mouth…Elrohir licked his own lips, wanting to feel that warmth now. The first time he had ever felt Legolas' mouth had been aboard the Sea Song with Legolas asleep under Elrohir's lustful gaze. And when he felt the muted, drowsy response from the sleeping Woodelf, Elrohir had pressed his tongue against those parted lips…

Elrohir's hand paused on his own flesh. That time he had shamed himself. He had taken advantage of Legolas' unconsciousness. He had behaved abominably…Elrohir shook his head as if he could rid himself of the heat, the shame of it. He pushed deep into the pillows as if he were trying to escape an unwanted touch himself, as if something held _him_ down hard and forced him to relive that moment when he had pushed his own hard, demanding sex against Legolas' warm skin…when his fingers had pinched and teased the peaked nipples, palms flat against the lean chest and belly, moved lower until he had cupped Legolas in his own hand and squeezed through the suede breeches.

Then as Legolas' sex began to bulge, he had squeezed harder, painfully and although Legolas's length filled quickly, he had whimpered … Elrohir's hand closed on himself and pumped, the pressure and churning in his balls a delectable, sinful secret.

He remembered how hungrily he had stared at the Elf spread before him, flushed cheeks, lips parted, eyelashes dark against his skin, long pale hair mussed and tangled, and the long, lean body …that dark desire that had raised its predatory head earlier now seized Elrohir as completely as it had before on that dreadful night on the Sea Song. Panting, pumping he remembered how he had suddenly dragged Legolas' hair into his fist and pulled his head back so his throat was exposed and Elrohir had pressed his hot mouth against the other Elf's throat, pushed open his lips to wrestle with his tongue.

Suddenly his hips thrust forwards and he exploded in sticky streams of white.

He stilled, listening to the sound of his own breath, hard and panting. There was a stickiness on his hand and the smell of his own semen. He blinked.

What had happened?

He had been fantasising about Legolas and somehow, at some point, it had turned to violence, when he had ripped the fabric of Legolas' clothes whilst he slept, and what he did could not be called a kiss, more rapacious, more assault…

Horrified at himself, Elrohir pushed himself up and stared at the semen spent in his hand, felt the familiar acid of bile in his throat at the smell. Ever since he had smelt the orc's semen on his own mother's thighs…

Eru.

He leaned forward and retched, felt bile fill his throat as it always had.

On a narrow shelf was a basin and jug of water for washing. He shook his head and leaned over the basin and filled it with cold water and splashed it on his face. His own reflection trembled and slowly stilled in the surface of the water and he stayed leaning over and staring at himself, staring into his own eyes, and hating himself. Hating the wickedness and darkness in his own heart that he enjoyed remembering a time when he had almost raped his own beloved Legolas. He was a loathsome disgrace. Unworthy. Unworthy!

He pushed himself from the small narrow cot and hurled the door open. The ship lurched as if it felt his disgust but it was just the wind and sea that plunged them from stern to bow and the ship rose and fell and the wind thrashed the water into stormy waves.

But it was not the sea, he reminded himself. It should not be so rough. It seemed almost that the elements themselves sought to rid Arda of him, that Air and Water had joined to throw the ship from the river.

He paused in front of the door of his cabin but he could not face the smell of his own self, the stink of his own semen spilled as he thought how he had almost raped Legolas. Almost raped his own mother, no matter what Legolas said. He was wrong. _I am an evil, a blight upon the world,_ he told himself, hating himself. Hating the darkness in him.

And now, the cruel spell that had insidiously slunk into his heart, returned. Away from the green-gold love of Legolas, Angmar's malice reasserted itself and Elrohir turned away, brooding on the beast he believed himself to be.

0o0o0

Legolas turned over in his sleep, restless and hot. He threw off the coverlet that had been cast over his bed and kicked it off his legs onto the floor. Something had awoken him but he could not say what. It had disturbed him whatever it was; something in the Song, like someone had strummed a finger over the strings of a harp.

He lay on his back staring up at the canvas roof, listening to the dwarf's snores. It was more of a snuffle and he wondered if it was that which had awoken him. But Gimli's presence was calming, and never bothered him. Even in the early days of the Fellowship, even when they sniped and bickered, he had known at some deeper level of Song that Gimli was earth and rock and good stone. It was the Ring that had made them fight each other, they both knew that now, for as soon as they had entered Lothlorien, the Ring had muted, turned elsewhere, and they had been able to find again the camaraderie they had had in Phellanthir and along the banks of the Bruinen.

So it was not Gimli that disturbed him, Legolas thought again.

He could see the stars through the open door of the tent. He had deliberately left it open to let the air in, the wind and stars. Moonlight pooled on the grass beyond, silvered the thin branches of the trees. There was barely a sound.

And yet his senses thrummed and he wanted to move. Something felt…not right. Like the notes in the Song had been pulled, distorted. It reminded him uncomfortably of when he had travelled with the Ring and it whispered and taunted, endlessly, wearing him down with its insidious seduction.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and his feet touched the rushes on the floor, dug into them to find the grass beneath, the earth and soil. He listened.

There was the sound of Gimli, the deep sonorous Song like a bronze bell over water, in the deep heart of the mountain. It was the song of Erebor, he remembered. And there too he could discern his friends, the hobbits with the lightness of a melody dancing over the fields and brooks and little gardens and hills. Frodo. Changed. A darkness sat within him that spoiled him, an empty patch in his song like scorched rock and dry earth where nothing could grow…Legolas dwelled upon Frodo for a little while, running over his presence with his own awareness, pressing his own green-gold lightness into the cold dark places of Frodo's heart. And when he felt the little hobbit's breathing deepen and slow, he turned back to feeling his way through the night.

The Rohirrim were there too, the wind over the high plains…Eomer's distinct notes, proud and windswept like the high steppe of his home.

No. It was none of these.

It was something unfamiliar. He stirred and rose to his feet, ducking beneath the tent flap to emerge outside in the cold night air. The stars were bright for the endless rain had washed away the last traces of ash and dust from the eruption of Mount Doom and the air was clear.

He leaned in and listened to the metallic chime of stars and the whisper of Spring across the land as small plants awoke and animals scurried about to feed their young.

It was none of these things…whatever it was was far away.

He wondered if Elrohir was awake and if he had yet landed at Osgiliath or was still aboard. A terrible loneliness surged through him then and he thought that this is what it would be like if Elrohir died…

Anglach had died.

He sank down onto the deep grass on the riverbank and drew his knees up, rested his chin on them.

He had not given himself space to grieve since the last night he had slept with Miriel, and Lossar; the three had started out together, leaving the feast that he could not enjoy, with Miriel leading them on. It was Legolas who had captured her, leaving Lossar somewhere in the glades beside the forest river, with the fires and music and dancing. It was by Miriel's design to be alone with Legolas, it seemed to him later, for usually all three of them ended curled about each other, his legs twined with both Miriel and Lossar. But perhaps Miriel had sensed Legolas' grief that night, and perhaps Lossar had decided to give them both time alone.

That night was their last before he had left for Imladris.

Now he knew that night had been his last ever with Miriel. For she was dead.

He remembered he had awoken, and slid away from Miriel's soft, warm body as she slept and began to dress, his absence waking her. She had slid her hand in his and smiled. She had a lovely smile, he remembered now as he sat upon the riverbank in Ithilien.

The moment they had returned to the glade, Miriel had been greeted by a dozen young relatives. Smaller hands had taken hers and pulled her towards one of the bonfires that was now low enough for the older elflings to jump. Those must be the children she was trying to take to safety when she was killed, he thought. His fingers twisted in the long grass and he felt a sob struggling from somewhere deep inside him.

She had been whisked away on children's laughter, and Legolas had slipped away also, back to the old oaks, to his own unadorned flet. During the feast he had made merry for his family, his father's sake, but took no comfort in it, at least not while sober.

Now without the numbness of wine or the warmth of another body to comfort him and help him forget, he had slumped to the floor and bent his head as he did now, raked his fingers through his hair, and for the thousandth time, relived the moment of finding Anglach. The bloody mess where his eyes should be, the tattered rags of his ears.

His sobs had been silent and racking and his tears bitter. And now the sob burst from him, a single wrangled cry and though he did not weep, he pressed his face into his knee.

That night in the Wood, after he had left Miriel, and retreated to his own flet, he had grieved, longing for Anglach's laughing, teasing, calling him goblin-prince until he had become conscious of an embrace, a familiar scent, a whisper. His cheek had pressed against a shoulder, the softness of long dark hair. At first he thought his brother, Thalos, had come. He had rubbed his sore eyes, opening them instead to Lossar who banished the darkness close around, and had regarded him with a depth of compassion that completely undid him then and undid him now.

He remembered how kind Lossar had been. "If only there were no last times, only firsts and forever." Lossar had sighed and drew his friend close again, stroking his long hair, a glow of silver, down the length of his back until Legolas had wept against his shoulder.

Now Legolas knew his face was wet again and he pressed his face into his knee, hard against the bone. Miriel was dead. And Lossar with his slow, easy smile. His lovers. His friends. Both dead. Like Anglach.

A low cry wrung from him that seemed to come from deep within, from his belly. From the absolute grief that now, at last, he gave into. He sat alone of the banks of the Anduin in far Ithilien and wept for them all.

He did not know for how long he sat there, but a warm hand descended upon his shoulder. Heavy, square, skilled. Short blunt fingers found his and clasped his hand in so intimate a gesture he thought it should be Lossar. But it was not.

'Aye, lad. You cry for your losses. Grieve for your old friend, Anglach was it? Tell me.'

So Gimli sat beside Legolas and listened to him tell of Anglach, of his teasing and silliness, of the time and time again that he had saved Legolas' life and Legolas had saved his. How Lossar and Miriel had comforted him the days after and how he grieved for them all. And Gimli told him of his own folk and his own losses. And Legolas thought then that he had lost friends, and found friends. That he would live.

0o0


	11. Chapter 11 The Coronation

(Special scene for Paradis and Unnamed Element, - you'll know, but I am sure others will like it too:) Thank you for all the nice reviews. Anyone logged in I reply to. And earthdragon, who isn't logged in, thank you.

As always, my thanks to the wonderful Anarithilien for her patience and time, and her creative genius!

 **Chapter 11: The Coronation**

And so, in the next days, Aragorn departed Cormallen with all his retinue, boarded the great ships that sailed down the Anduin, and arrived in Osgiliath.

It was the first day of May. The King had been received by Faramir, the Steward and welcomed. Now they rode together, side by side, and with the Ringbearers and Gandalf, they entered the city followed by Eomer, King of Rohan and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. In the company that followed, victorious, weary, relieved, were the great captains and lords of Gondor's host and amongst them, somewhere behind, were a dwarf and an elf.

The crowds cheered and waved and flowers were thrown in their path as the procession wound through the wide main streets and people crammed into the squares and hung over the balconies to wave and cheer.

High on the seventh level and in Steward's Gardens that overlooked the city's lower levels, Elrohir stood on the ramparts amongst the nobles and lords of Gondor too old to ride into battle, or who had waited in the city to defend it if all else failed. Up here was a vantage point from which the King's procession could be viewed and so the court was crammed with people; an excited murmur rising from them and they pushed forwards to get their first glimpse of the new King. The scent of roses filled the air though it was still early and Elrohir thought that his mother would have liked this garden. For once, the memory of her did not fill him with guilt and pain but he did not wonder why.

Elrohir craned his neck, easily the tallest man there, but he could not see the pale wintergrass hair of the one he loved most, still too far away. Elrohir knew Legolas was there though. He could sense him like the scent of the sea on the wind.

Below were the crowds of people cheering, waving, throwing petals before the King, waving banners. Trumpets blared a fanfare as he processed through the streets, slowly winding his way up through the levels, as each of the seven gates was opened to Aragorn and the keys presented until he finally reached the Seventh Level upon which stood the palace of the Kings of old, that had become the Hall of the Stewards. Here Aragorn was to be crowned before all the city.

The crowd amongst which Elrohir stood was restless, excited for they had to await the King's ascent to the citadel. Like a flock of raucous seagulls waiting to be fed, Elrohir thought in disgust and immediately knew it was unfair. It was that wound lingering, he thought, still restricting him and so _slow_ to heal. A month had passed and he was still not hale. It was taking too long and he longed to be rid of it. But Elladan had said that the sticky tendrils of the Black Web still clung to his fëa and slowed his healing. Elladan had laughed unsympathetically at his impatience and reminded him that only months ago, (was it only months?) in order to distract the Nazgûl from the Ring's departure south, Elrohir had ridden out to meet the Nazgûl on Amon Sûl with Glorfindel, leaving Elladan behind recovering from the morgul blade. And this was not unlike.

For a moment, he glimpsed Elladan far below at the one of the gates of the city, standing beside Imrahil and Faramir. And the gate opened and Aragorn surged into view, the crowds already cheering before he even appeared.

Elrohir felt himself reeling suddenly, overcome. The moment suddenly so immense for these people of Gondor who had waited and waited… but for him too, and his brother, his father. At last, their long guardianship was at an end; no more Heirs of Isildur in Imladris. No more foster brothers…. It seemed for a moment that they all stood beside him like ghosts, watching the child of their children slowly enter the gates of Minas Tirith and pause to look about himself wonderingly. Arathorn. Arador. Argonui. All the way back to Aranarth, who had been a tall, gangling youth with arms and legs too long and then grown into one of the most accomplished warriors Elrohir had ever ridden with. He had loved Arathorn for his quiet kindness, and then Aragorn most of all.

It seemed to take forever for the King's procession to wind its way through the streets of Minas Tirith. The nobles and great of Minas Tirith had drifted away a little, bored perhaps by the waiting and Elrohir took a vacated seat on a stone bench where he could still see and hear the King's procession. He stretched out his injured leg and propped up his cane by his side. For a moment, he closed his eyes and let his own crimson power gentle and warm the inflamed and stretched sinews and muscles, smooth along the nerves and untangle the jangling knots of pain. The sun was warm on his skin, and it heated his hair. The noise of the crowds dimmed into insignificance and he leaned his head back, tipped his face up to the sun.

He became aware of a presence at his side and opened his eyes. A Man stood slightly behind and to the side of him, looking out over the Pelennor Fields; he was one of the merchants to whom Elrohir had been introduced when he arrived to prepare the city for the king. Imrahil had counselled both Elrohir and Elladan to make alliances for Aragorn's sake and reluctantly Elrohir had complied in the few days he had been in the city; ensuring he was courteous to both merchants and lords, charming to the ladies and maids alike.

So now inclined his head in greeting and made room on the stone bench.

'My lord,' the Man said and swept his elegant and rich robes to one side so he could ease in alongside Elrohir. He leaned back slightly and tipped his face up towards the sun as Elrohir had done moments before.

Elrohir could not remember the Man's name and frowned. He had been introduced once, spoken only that time but the Man had been the object of much speculation, not all of it kind.

'I believe you too are recently come to the city,' he said.

'Indeed,' replied the Man. 'I had the greatest fortune. Only weeks ago, I found a seam of gold on my poor farmstead and brought a nugget here. It was fought over by two of the richest merchants in the city and so I found myself with money for the first time on my life. I have sold my land and come to the city. It has made my wife happy.' He smiled, seemingly a little awed by his own sudden fortune that had plunged him into the circles of influence and power in the city. 'It is chance that the King has brought peace and with it will come prosperity. Many will want gold. They hope to make gifts to the King and so buy his favour.' There was a different air to the Man now, something worldly and knowing as if he were not at all that humble peasant. It gave weight to the rumours that he was not as he seemed.

Indeed, the change made Elrohir uneasy, like there was something hidden and waiting.

'It must be a great day for you and your brother,' the merchant continued politely. 'I am told that you brought up our King from a child, taught him all he knows of war and statecraft. You must be proud.'

'We are,' Elrohir said, hearing how tightly his voice was wound and forcing himself to relax. 'He had achieved everything he intended to. And I know he will be a good King to his people.' Elrohir shifted uncomfortably for suddenly his leg began to throb. He winced as he stretched it out in front of him, feeling the crunch of the joint as it straightened. As he did so, he put his hand on the edge of the bench and by accident, brushed against the Man's own fingers.

A jolt shot through Elrohir like he had been bitten.

 _Ravéyön_

He snatched his hand back and glanced down in shock. The Man wore an old ring but there was nothing untoward, and he was looking straight ahead as if unaware of Elrohir's reaction.

At that moment, a page came running over, breathless. 'Master Bearas,' he panted. 'Forgive me but you are wanted in the House.'

Elrohir glanced at the boy, red-faced and hot. It must be important indeed to pull the Man away from this. Bearas rose to his feet and gave a smooth bow to Elrohir.

'Forgive me, my lord. It is my wife.' Bearas looked excited, younger. 'She is expecting our second child and I must go. I am hoping for a little boy.' His face grew fond and doting. 'I have a little girl, Gerda and she is so excited to have a little brother or sister. Our unexpected good fortune means that this time, we hope not to lose this one. We have had two still births before.' He looked suddenly uncertain, and Elrohir saw again the Man again as he had been when he first sat. 'Perhaps you will pray to the Valar for us?'

Elrohir smiled at him but did not reach out to clasp his hand as custom bade. He did not want to touch his hand again. 'Go! And good fortune.' He did not say he would pray for he could not, but he wished the Man and his little family well.

He frowned and leaned forward. Had he heard a whisper: _Ravéyön_? Was it just that he was here? And the sense of the Nazgûl lingered yet? Or perhaps it was that the Black Web did indeed linger as Elladan had said?

He shook himself. Perhaps. It was his overwrought imagination, the wound, sleeplessness. Missing Legolas like his heart had been cut out.

Turning back to the crowd, he saw that Aragorn's procession was making very slow progress for the crowds pressed close and he had to keep stopping to address his people, children were passed up to him for blessing.

And then suddenly, Elrohir spotted a tall, blond elf amongst the Men below.

Legolas.

Simply clad and unprepossessing, in his moss green tunic and suede boots, with Gimli standing beside him like a boulder. They were there after all, behind Aragorn. Elrohir's heart gave a great leap and he had to restrain himself from leaping down the steps from the citadel to throw open the gates to the seventh level himself. His heart thumped in his chest and he felt a surge of love. Devotion. He would fall to his knees before Legolas and adore him.

Then Legolas looked up as if he felt Elrohir's attention. He was still too far away for Elrohir to see his face but suddenly, Elrohir was overwhelmed with the scent of the Woods, leaf mould and mist, spring, meadowgrass and hay, the forest stream tumbling over slate and granite, pooling in stillness beneath the moss and ferns. Elrohir could not wait any longer and pushed himself to his feet, still leaning on his cane but less heavily than in Cormallen, and found himself pressed close by the crowd of nobles and lords who awaited the return of the King of Gondor. Stifling his bad temper, he pushed his way between the crowd, smiling tightly and apologising as he eased his way back from the edge of the ramparts towards the palace.

At last he felt he could breathe. In the Tower Hall, the marble floors were cold and the sunlight, though it streamed through the great windows, did little to warm the empty halls. It was prepared for the King's welcome with flowers and garlands but empty; his footsteps rang on the floor. He would make his way at least to the steps of the palace, he thought. At least he could greet Aragorn as if it were the King he was impatient to see.

Quickly he made his way through the empty palace. Everyone was outside - not a soul within. The statues of the Stewards lined the hall, giving way later to Kings. He paused before one, Ondoher, he read; there was nothing of Aragorn in the face of this one. He had been carved from stone and not well, hastily, as if to catch his likeness before he was forgotten. Calimehtar was next to him. But his likeness was better done, his face still and calm, his eyes raised and looking West. The stone seemed fluid, fluted into the folds of his robes. A slight smile played about his lips and now the resemblance struck Elrohir. That smile was Aragorn's.

He glanced back down the rows of statues; they seemed like the march of time itself. And Elrohir was struck by the sense of time passing.

And then he heard the fanfares of trumpets announce the Return of the King and he hurried out into the crowded square with its lime trees just beginning to leaf, the pale stone warm in the sun. A slow roar was growing, gathering from the streets and heralding Aragorn's procession from the circles of the city to its final, highest level for the people of Gondor had not remained behind in their levels as he passed but followed Aragorn as he climbed through the city and now there were thousands in his wake. On the crowded steps of the palace, Elrohir looked across to see the Lady Eowyn of Rohan, her white dress gleaming and her hair pale gold. She had more colour in her cheeks now and Elrohir hoped it was not because Aragorn approached. And then the roar became a loud cheering and shouting, fanfares trumpeted again and the bells rang out.

A magnificent black horse, so like the one that Elrohir had ridden to the Morannon, surged into the square; silver glinted in the sun from its ornate bridle and saddle and upon it was a lordly figure, tall and cloaked in red with dark hair and grey eyes. Aragorn.

Elrohir felt his throat catch and his eyes filled with tears; here was all they had striven for all those long years. Here was the Heir of Isildur restored. Aragorn Elessar. Estel.

Behind him was Imrahil, followed by Gandalf, Eomer, Elladan and then the hobbits and Gimli.

Elrohir searched for Legolas but could see nothing and sudden fear grabbed his heart. Surely nothing could have happened during the procession? Gimli did not look alarmed.

A breath ghosted over the back of his neck and he felt the sunlight had changed and instead of a city of stone, he thought he walked in the green-gold light of the woods in spring, beechen green and dappled.

A hand drifted across his waist and slipped away and he turned, yearning, for a glimpse of long blond hair like wintergrass, a blazing smile that ignited him, so he felt aflame with desire. Legolas slid between the straining people craning their necks to see their new King. He slipped between the shadows of the lime trees and then through the open gateway to the palace and its gardens. Through the stone arch, Elrohir followed, his feet like lead with the heaviness of his wound but his heart flying like the banners that flew now from the Tower of Ecthelion; the plain white standard of the Stewards and the black banner with the white tree and seven stars of Aragorn.

Elrohir stood in the empty Court of the Fountain where the White Tree of Gondor wasted. No one else was here for all were either in the square to greet Aragorn or standing in the Steward's gardens that overlooked the circles of the city and watching the King's procession.

No one else was there but Legolas.

0o0o

Legolas waited breathlessly for Elrohir, impatiently. But he took so long! How was it that he did not run, take long strides, leap the low wall, spring over the flower beds and crush Legolas to him? He watched impatiently, and Elrohir emerged from the shaded gateway, limping and leaning on his cane. Immediately Legolas felt ashamed and anxious and a spear of longing pierced him with intensity, of pity and compassion for Elrohir's pain and immense tenderness.

He could not wait for Elrohir to reach him though and took three strides across the courtyard, leapt the low hedge of lavender and scooted through the roses. He fell against Elrohir, lips crushing lips, hands all over Elrohir as if they could drink him in, like he wanted to with his mouth. Lust sizzled through him and he felt himself burgeon, fill, stiffen and he wanted to tear the clothes from Elrohir, to lay him down and fuck him senseless.

Beyond words now, or coherent thought, Legolas pulled at Elrohir, dragged him through the open door to the emptied Tower of Ecthelion and there, just inside the shaded door, he tore at his lover's dark velvet surcoat with clumsy impatience, desperate for the feel of Elrohir's skin, like he was deprived of air and water. At last his lips were on Elrohir's shoulder, the smooth skin over muscle, the smell of him, clean like snow on the mountains, and that underlying musk that was always there.

He leaned in and sniffed at Elrohir's skin, hard, inhaling him deeply. He heard Elrohir laugh and felt him shake his head.

'What are you doing?' Elrohir asked indulgently, a smile in his voice and Legolas closed his eyes and buried his nose, his mouth and face in Elrohir's shoulder, smelling, touching feeling him, enveloping himself in all of Elrohir.

'I am remembering you,' he said. 'Claiming you again.'

'Come inside more,' Elrohir murmured, pulling him into an ante-chamber that was barely hidden if someone should come but Legolas did not care. He wanted! Oh, how he wanted Elrohir. Like nothing he had ever felt before. If he could climb into his lover's skin, he would.

He shed his own clothes barely noticing and pressed himself against his beloved Elrohir. Long black hair slid through his fingers, over his hands like night-silk; it smelled of the air, of the frost, of snow on the mountains like Elrohir had been riding on the high Hithaeglir although he could not have been. Or the wind had been blowing through his hair that had come down off the mountains, which it might. He kissed Elrohir more gently now, not crushing, not clashing his teeth against him. But the sensation of kissing him, of feeling his skin was like home, such a strange sensation and he was still not used to it. Every fibre of him thrummed with the closeness and he pressed himself as close as he could, so their skin stuck in places and rubbed unbearably.

'Take me, let me take you, I care not. But for Manwë's sake, fuck me now. Hard and quick. I cannot wait.'

Elrohir fucked him, standing up with Legolas pressed into the marble wall and his cock trapped between the wall and his belly as Elrohir shoved his cock bursting into Legolas and Elrohir twisted his hair around his fist and pulled his head back to lick and suck at his throat. Slowly at first and then frantically, he pumped into Legolas until both climaxed in huge rush of hot sticky semen and Elrohir pressed his face into Legolas' neck and inhaled him as Legolas had earlier.

There was a blare of trumpets and a loud voice outside, announcing the King and Legolas looked back over his shoulder at Elrohir, gasping and laughing, and they pulled apart slowly, pleased with each other. It had taken no more than minutes and Legolas laughed softly.

'Did you miss me?' he murmured. Then he turned and pushed Elrohir's hair out of his lovely face, noting the tension round the mouth, the slight squeeze around his eyes. 'How is your leg?'

At that, as if he had forgotten until now, Elrohir collapsed against the wall, leaning his back against it. 'Hurts like an orc is grinding the bone,' he said. He sighed. 'But it will be better now that you are here.' The smile he gave Legolas then took Legolas' breath away for here was Elrohir Ravéyön, Son of Thunder, who had offered his life over and over for Legolas.

Overwhelmed, Legolas cupped Elrohir's cheek and kissed him gently, deeply, then leaned his forehead against his beloved. 'I will do anything you ask,' he said. 'Anything. I wish you to be well. What will it take?'

'Nothing. You are here now. That is all I need.'

With a long look, Legolas looked about and saw a dainty lace cloth over a table. He grimaced and then used it to wipe himself clean, handed it to Elrohir. Then he reached down and scooped up Elrohir's velvet surcoat and laughing, brushed it off and held it out for Elrohir to shrug into. He retrieved his own breeches and pulled them on, then drew over his head his own much repaired moss suede tunic. Wordlessly they brushed each other down and pulled up breeches, smoothed surcoats, tidied hair and then smiling, Elrohir slipped out into the crowd.

Legolas paused for a moment, listening. Then he took long strides out into the courtyard following Elrohir a little way after.

At last he emerged into the sunlight beneath the lime trees and amongst the crowd. Several of the people turned and looked at Legolas as he stood at the back and watched Aragorn ascend the steps to the Hall of the Stewards, which would now be the Palace of the King. When they saw who he was, the people stepped back for Legolas and nodded and smiled at him.

Soon he found himself on the edge of the procession once again and a dwarf turned his head and glared at Legolas. 'Where've you been? You almost missed this.' Gimli looked shrewdly at Legolas and then shook his head. He shoved the ends of his beard into his mouth and then realising, snatched them out again. 'Well whatever it is you've been up to, don't wander off again. I can't always cover for you.'

Smiling, Legolas patted the dwarf on the head and followed him within to where Gandalf would crown Aragorn, King Elessar of Gondor.

0o0o


	12. Chapter 12 The Reign of AragornII

Beta: The very wonderful Anarithilien.

Thanks as always to everyone still reviewing- Raider-K, firerosedreamer, Nako, Alanic, Nelyafinwe, Freddie and nimruzir. Thank you for the encouragement. It does feel like this fandom has slowed right down so every review counts.

 **Chapter 12. The Reign of Aragorn II**

Aragorn leaned on the granite window sill and pensively looked out over the white city. The pale stone gleamed in the setting sun and the sky was a wash of pink and yellow. White clouds gathered benevolently over the farmlands of Gondor, promising a fertile rain that would turn the dry and barren battlefield of Pelennor to rich green. But instead of joy and excitement, Aragorn felt a horrible churning in his belly of nerves and dread. The burden of kingship was on his shoulders and he found himself overwhelmed. He longed for the day that Arwen was by his side; she was so capable, so good at organising. She would help him sort out what he needed to do….And more, he longed for the softness of her body, her curves that his hand rested upon, her waist, her hips, her breasts…He shook himself. That would do him no good at all.

Turning back to the heavy carved desk that was crammed with letters, messages and petitions, he walked heavily to the chair and pulled it out, sat down and stared at the papers in front of him.

He picked up one; a letter from a minor lord in the southern part of Gondor wanting to know if the King was going to pay for the repair to the roads from Minas Tirith to his small fiefdom. Aragorn put it down and picked up another; this was a petition from a widow whose husband, she said, had been killed under the king's command and she was destitute. How would she pay for her children's food? That was more easily solved he thought and put aside a small pouch of coins. But the next one was similar and the next. Soon he found himself pushing the petitions and coins to one side- this piecemeal giving out of alms was no solution.

He tried to remember what Erestor had told him that Maedhros had done to pay for everything; he could not have had great wealth when first they came from over the sea. He wondered if he could persuade Erestor to stay in the city and help him. After all, Elrond would leave now and pass West and Erestor would not go. It left him free…but to do what?

Erestor would be ideal to deal with the bickering politics of the lords of Gondor, and brokering treaties with Rohan and Dol Amroth, although he thought that would be the easiest part. But he had Khand and the Harad to deal with too, and the prisoner, Kustîg, he had brought because he did not know what else to do with him. Kustîg was presently housed in a rather lavish accommodation that was not quite a prison, but he wished only that the Khandian chief would simply accept the inevitable. Perhaps when Erestor arrived, he might introduce him. The thought brought a smile to Aragorn's lips; Erestor would come with Arwen. And Elrond surely? Perhaps Galadriel and Celeborn too. He tapped his teeth with one of the letters; Haldir might also come with Galadriel, her most important captain. During their stay in Lothlorien, Legolas had spent time with Haldir. Though he did not know how they spent their time, Aragorn guessed it was not all in archery.

Until then there were all the big problems, like how was he going to feed everyone. How were they going to afford to rebuild Gondor without taxing the very lords and merchants he needed to be his allies…And breaking his foster-father's heart. Yes. That too.

Suddenly it was overwhelming and he put his head in hands and groaned.

'I have seen that face before, though some years ago I think.'

He turned to see Elladan standing in the doorway with a smile on his face. 'I remember a boy struggling with work given him by Erestor. Your favourite was something like: _discuss the impact of Cirdan's government of Mithlond compared with that of Ost-in-Edhel in the Second Age_. As scintillating as this, I think.' He spread his hand towards the scrolls bundled and gathered up in the centre of the desk.

He opened the scroll and scanned it quickly. 'This is a requisition for barley from Dol Amroth.' He looked up. 'Do you want to be dealing with this yourself? If not, who can do that for you?'

'I do not want to be dealing with all of this myself,' Aragorn said emphatically. 'But I do want to know that there will be enough food for my people.'

'You will need to have good people in charge of things for you and who report to you. A council. You know how to do this,' he said reassuringly. 'You have done this in the Angle. And you have seen Elrond's council in Imladris.' Elladan leaned down and said with a smile. 'Faramir is your steward. He is one of those people who will be on your council. And he will know who else should be asked to help. It will be an honour for them.'

Elladan looked at the pile of widows' letters and the scatter of coins. 'What are all of these?' He picked one up and scanned it quickly, his face serious. 'This is important,' he said looking up at Aragorn. 'How you treat the poor will determine your reign. But you could give this job to someone else, someone trustworthy. Make sure they have the money to help and then charge them to sort out housing and food for all these people who have suffered in the war.'

'Yes, there are some good people who would serve the city well,' said Aragorn slowly. Then he sighed. 'But I do not know how I will pay for it all….I think I will have to tax everyone.'

'That won't go down well,' Elladan laughed softly and pulled out the chair opposite Aragorn. 'Well done. You have defeated the Dark Lord. Now all you have to do is rule!'

Aragorn laughed wryly despite himself. 'I have a very good wine here somewhere,' he said and rose to his feet. He snagged a pewter jug and goblets and with a nod, led Elladan out into a small courtyard filled with early roses and lavender that scented the evening air. There was an early jasmine somewhere too. 'I think that Denethor had these gardens kept well,' he said and seated himself upon a stone bench that had been set just in front of a warm stone wall so that one could easily lean back against it. He poured two goblets and handed one to Elladan who looked at it appreciatively.

'The King Returned has expensive tastes,' he observed with a smile. 'Perhaps you should keep this for when peace has brought prosperity. The rich will not want to see you squander their taxes on fine wines and delicacies. Live frugally for a while. Tell others that we build. Tell them peace will bring them opportunities to trade with other realms, that the roads will open new markets.' He drank appreciatively. Then he smiled at Aragorn and turned his face back towards the setting sun. He said nothing for a moment, closing his eyes to enjoy the warmth on his face. Then he said, 'Aragorn, you know that soon Elrohir will be well enough to ride and then we will leave. Not you, not for long,' he said quickly. 'Arwen has left Imladris,' he explained. 'She is on her way here and Elrohir and I will go and meet her in Lothlorien and bring her here. It will not be long, Estel, and all your dreams will have come true.'

Aragorn did not ask how Elladan knew that Arwen had left Imladris; he just accepted it and felt his eyes fill and his belly clenched with a strange mixture of anxiety and devotion and love. Arwen would be here. She would be beside him, sitting with him in this very garden, walking at his side. In his bed.

'And I think you will find that Arwen has some ideas about how to rule. She has always helped Elrond.' Elladan smiled again, more kindly. 'She will make quick work of this. And you have to admit that Faramir has done a very good job while they waited for your return.' He indicated the Pelennor Fields. 'The carrion has been disposed of, the city walls repaired as much as they could.' He paused and drank wine. 'He did as much as he could in preparation for what might well have become the final siege. He will be a good steward.'

Aragorn smiled. 'You're right.' A weight seemed to lift from his shoulders then. And Arwen was coming. She would be here in weeks!

In his heart a great surge seemed to fight its way out, wanting him to shout for joy. But he did not. Instead his fingers found the Evenstar and stroked it.

Elladan was smiling at him. 'It fills my heart that both my brothers have found love,' he said.

Aragorn glanced at him. 'And you?' he asked curiously.

Elladan leaned his head back against the warm stone wall. 'It is curious,' he said contemplatively. 'I did not think to find such joy in another man,' he said. 'But I find Imrahil's company more than pleasant. And I find the prospect of being without his company and the warmth of his regard makes me feel lonely.' He paused. 'Whether it is love or no, I cannot tell you now. But perhaps in time, it may grow into that.' He glanced at Aragorn. 'I am not like Elrohir you know. I have not that immense and all consuming passion that cannot be controlled, and if it is not satisfied, he thinks he will die. That is not me. But when I find my heart, it will be as deep and as devoted. It will make my Choice for me. Of that there is no question.'

Aragorn put his hand over Elladan's and squeezed slightly. It would kill Elrond, he thought, to lose both Arwen and Elladan, who was closest to him. And Elrohir? Where would it leave him if Elladan took the Way of Men?

0o0o

Legolas lay against Elrohir's chest, it had been a more leisurely love-making this time. His long legs were crossed at the ankle and he stared upwards at the ceiling, noting long cracks in the plaster that were the result of the Nazgûl's bombing of the city with great rocks and slabs of stonework from the city walls. In spite of this, there was a slight smile on his lips and he sighed with contentment. Elrohir was very still. Legolas tilted his head slightly and leaned in to listen to Elrohir's song, the sense of the high mountains where the wind blew and smelled of snow, and the eagles cried high above…It was a noble song, he thought pleasurably. Heroic. If a little lonely.

He wondered if Elrohir was still lonely, even though Legolas himself was here with him.

With kindly concern he tipped his head back to look into Elrohir's eyes but Elrohir was gazing into space, his pupils blown wide and his mouth slack. A small niggle wormed its way into Legolas' thoughts…What if he was not really significant in Elrohir's life? What if this was just a fling?

But he shook himself free of such doubts and stroked Elrohir's thigh instead. At last Elrohir looked down and rested his cheek upon the top of Legolas' head and gave a deep sigh that seemed to come from his very soul.

'I love you,' Elrohir murmured and Legolas smiled and nestled into him.

'Of course,' he said smiling.

But he did not think of saying that he loved Elrohir, for it was so obvious; his song soared whenever he was with Elrohir. He could hear how his own melody wound about Elrohir's, danced through the lovely harmonies, twined about the notes that were Elrohir's. And so he did not see the hurt in Elrohir's grey eyes and the way he almost flinched when Legolas pushed himself to his feet a moment later to pour wine.

'Elladan says that Arwen has left Imladris and is making her way here,' Elrohir said.

Legolas nodded. 'Good,' he said, lifting his goblet to his lips and drinking. He wiped his mouth with his hand. 'Aragorn needs her very much! He is so love-sick it is almost funny.' He smiled fondly. 'He went on and on about her when we were in the Wilds. Kept singing the Lay of Beren and Luthien whenever he had the chance.' He laughed softly and brought as goblet back to the bed, handing it to Elrohir. He looked at his beloved, his long hair was mussed and tangled from where Legolas had held him down, wrapping it round his fist to draw Elrohir's head down over his cock, hold him there, and there were bruises on his shoulders where Legolas had bitten him in blind passion. Wincing slightly, he traced a finger over one that had broken the skin and looked sore. 'Sorry,' he said, grimacing.

Elrohir looked surprised. 'Why are you sorry?'

Legolas prodded the mark. 'I got carried away. Does it hurt?'

'Does it hurt!' Elrohir laughed. Properly. Loudly and it made Legolas' heart jump and soar to hear him so free, so happy. 'This from the man who had me begging him to stop, who had me almost suffocate with my face in that pillow while you pounded me so I can hardly walk!'

But he had to stop because Legolas was carried away by a wave of love and desire and kissed him hard, pushing his tongue into Elrohir's mouth and pulling him so close, he wanted to be inside his skin, inside him.

'Listen,' Elrohir said at last, pulling his head back to look at Legolas. 'We have to go and meet her.'

'Who?' Legolas pulled back, leaning on his elbows and gazing up at Elrohir. He was so beautiful, with his grey eyes and black hair. It was deep black, not just a very dark brown. But truly black. So it was almost blue when the light shone on it in a certain way.

'Arwen and her retinue.,' Elrohir said, stroking a hand . 'Elladan and I must go and meet them,' said Elrohir. He shuffled back a little so he could see Legolas' face, almost as if he wanted to see his reaction.

'Oh.' Legolas understood now. He sat up, wrapped his arms around his long legs. 'When do you leave?' He tried to be generous. After all, this was a momentous time for Elrohir and his family; Arwen was making her Choice and would be forever lost to the Elves.

She would die a mortal death.

It wrenched his heart to think of it, for it reminded him too that his friends, Aragorn, the Hobbits, Gimli would also die one day and be forever lost to him.

'It will only be a couple of weeks,' Elrohir said. He leaned down to peer into Legolas' face, concerned. 'It will fly past and in no time, I will be back.'

Legolas looked up. 'Well that is not too bad,' he said brightly, hoping to comfort Elrohir and not be needy. 'We will have to make the most of the time we have together!'

Something suddenly occurred to him. 'Who will be coming with Arwen?'

Elrohir paused. 'Elrond of course. Perhaps Galadriel and my grandfather. I think some from Imladris and some from Lothlorien.'

Legolas chewed his lip. He wondered if Haldir would be amongst the group from Lothlorien. And Berensul might well accompany the group from Imladris. And Tindómion. He looked down at the coverlet. It was silk and linen and embroidered with flowers that Legolas recognised from when they rode across the Lebennin. He picked at a loose thread. That would be as well as Eomer.

'Elrohir,' he began hesitantly, knowing how fragile was their new-found love, wanting to be honest. 'You are not the first I have loved.' He caught Elrohir's hand and when Elrohir looked away, tugged on it gently. 'Please. But you are my first beloved. My only beloved.

But Elrohir looked away and squeezed Legolas' hand. 'Please. Do not speak of this now,' he said. 'I cannot think it. I cannot bear it.'

Legolas sighed. 'We have to speak of it sometime,' he said. He scooted over towards Elrohir and put his finger under his chin, bringing his face up so Elrohir had to meet his eyes. 'I need to tell you, so that you do not think it is not you that I love.'

Elrohir pulled away slightly. 'Please. It is enough that you love me. We do not have to speak of this.'

Legolas sighed and let him go.

0o0o

Even now with Sauron's army destroyed and the fields gradually restored, it was not yet a time of plenty and even the King's table was sparse. Lords brought gifts to the table of dishes and food and the bonds, so recently forged under battle, were strengthened in these times of austerity. There was a jollity at his table and Aragorn, taking his brother's advice, served a poorer wine than he had drunk in the garden with Elladan, and ate and drank with relish, for even this poor fare was better than the Fellowship had eaten in the quest.

Beside Aragorn, on his right hand, sat Faramir and on his left was Eomer. Eowyn sat between Legolas and Merry and they were attentive and concerned about her. But her cheeks were flushed and her eyes lively. She laughed often as the two entertained her. Gimli was opposite her and his courtesy unfailing.

'Your sister seems much recovered,' Aragorn commented to Eomer.

Eomer nodded, waving a chicken leg in Eowyn's direction. 'She is indeed. That Ringwraith had no chance against my little sister,' he said proudly. 'But it was you who brought her back, Aragorn, and for that I am grateful.' He tore the meat of the chicken leg and spoke with his mouth full. 'I for one would be glad to seal the alliance between our realms.'

At that, Faramir's hand seemed to shake and a spatter of wine shot over the while linen cloth. 'Forgive me my lord!' he said, mortified. 'I thought I was more recovered myself.'

'Ah!' Eomer turned his attention to Faramir now. 'And you, my lord, showed great courage in fighting on alone in Osgiliath! That is worth a song. You should pay someone to write it.'

Faramir turned his gentler grey eyes towards Eomer. 'And what would it tell, pray? That I was defeated and lost my men, that in returning, I drove my father to madness, that I was almost burned alive by him and had it not been for the Hobbit and Wizard, I would be dead? That would make a song.' His voice was bitter.

'No,' Eomer said without a trace of regard for the other Man's hurt. 'I would make a song how you rode out to defend Osgiliath after it had been taken, how you faced the army of Sauron with only a hundred men to delay long enough for Aragorn to reach the city. How you fought the Witchking yourself and though he struck you down, you still made it back to warn the city of Sauron's intent. I would tell how your poor father went mad indeed and tried to kill you in his agony and despair.' His voice softened then. 'But I would tell too, of how you treated my sister with kindness in her awakening from the dark that held her in its thrall.' He swallowed the meat and picked up his goblet. 'So she tells me anyway.'

'Lord?' A Rohirrim rider looked apologetically at Aragorn, and then leaned down to speak briefly with the King of Rohan.

Eomer turned to speak with him and Aragorn turned back to Faramir just in time to catch the look in Faramir's eyes and realised that Faramir was looking past Eomer and to Eowyn, who was laughing at something Gimli had said to Legolas. Legolas quirked an eyebrow elegantly and then leaned towards Eowyn and poured her wine, whilst saying something that had Eowyn laughing and Gimli glaring at the elf.

'It is good that you have been showing kindness to the Lady Eowyn,' said Aragorn gently, speculatively. And yes, there was a faint blush on the younger man's cheeks so that Aragorn was pleased. 'She is a lady of exceptional courage and nobility,' he continued, pouring wine into the man's goblet and waving away the servant who hovered solicitously nearby.

'Yes.' Faramir's eyes were cast downwards. 'She is.' It seemed that was all he could say and Aragorn took pity on Faramir and leaned towards him slightly.

'Eowyn needs a husband who will be her equal, not her overlord. She needs to be allowed to breathe.'

Faramir's grey eyes looked up into Aragorn's, and a sudden hope flared in them.

'I have heard that her heart is given, lord,' he said hesitantly.

Aragorn sighed and looked into his goblet. 'She is, was, in love with a dream,' he said. 'She thinks, _thought_ she was in love with me but I am not the man she thought. I am already betrothed before I ever set eyes upon the White Lady of Rohan. I am not what she is looking for.' He looked Faramir in the eye steadily and said, 'But you are. And you have my blessing if you wish it.'

'… contravening the laws.' A low murmur away to Aragorn's left just intruded momentarily on his awareness and he turned his head to see old lord… Ah. Aragorn sighed. He could not remember his name. The old man leaned towards another younger man, but Aragorn could not remember his name either. '…cannot be allowed so close to the King whatever he is to him…'

'You are already betrothed?' Faramir drew Aragorn's attention back. He sounded like he had been holding his breath, and was amazed. He let his head fall against the back of his chair. 'That explains much for I could not believe you did not return her feelings.'

Aragorn blinked. Faramir had thought he returned Eowyn's love; but of course he would. He smiled fondly. The young Man was clearly deeply in love and could not imagine how anyone could not feel the same about Eowyn as he felt himself. He gave his full attention back to his new Steward.

'She told me you had said you were not for her,' Faramir continued. 'But I could not believe that when you returned, you would not claim her. For she is the fairest, loveliest woman. Her heart is great and noble and her deeds will be spoken of for ages hence.' His eyes shone and he looked past Aragorn to where Eowyn was. She had flung back her head to laugh merrily at something Legolas said. The elf had one arm along the back of her chair and leaning in towards her, his eyes upon her.

For a moment, Faramir's eyes darkened but Aragorn shook his head quickly. 'Legolas is no threat to you. His heart is already given. When we passed through Rohan,' Aragorn said, following Faramir's gaze, 'Legolas had been injured.' He did not say that Legolas had been struck when trying to defend Boromir from orcs. 'I asked Eomer to take Legolas with him to Meduseld to recover. Whilst he was there, Grima had both him and Eomer imprisoned and it was Eowyn who freed them…Legolas and Eowyn conspired to awaken Theoden from the spell cast upon him by Saruman.' Aragorn swirled his wine in the goblet. 'It is why Saruman hates Legolas so and will do him harm if he could. I for one am glad that Saruman is locked up and guarded by Treebeard and cannot escape. I think there is much bitterness in his heart and it will turn towards Mirkwood. If he ever escaped, it is there he will go.' A moment of prescience struck Aragorn then and he felt himself sway…heard shouting as if it was far off, screaming and a smell of blood and choking smoke…yellow smoke.

But that was the vision that Saruman had sent Legolas in Orthanc. And the news from the Wood was that Thranduil had been victorious. He cast a quick look down the table towards Legolas and shook himself. There was no trouble in Mirkwood and he should not seek it.

Unaware of Aragorn's concern, Faramir shook his head in wonder. 'The tales that have come from these times seemed to bring legends and myth to life; the Tree-shepherds are real, elves walk in our lands, and the King is returned.' He looked at Aragorn for a moment and then stood up suddenly and held up his goblet.

'To the King!' he declared loudly. 'May his reign be prosperous and peaceful. May he live long.'

All the assembled nobles and lords and ladies quickly leapt or scrambled or staggered, depending on their ages or condition after so much wine, and raised their cups to Aragorn, cheering and shouting his name.

Aragorn felt faintly embarrassed and glanced along the table to his friends; Gimli had the patient and proud air of someone who was entirely responsible for Aragorn's success, Frodo looked tired still but had a sweet smile on his face and Gandalf looked smug. Elladan nodded and raised his goblet in recognition of the conversation they had had earlier. But Elrohir had only eyes for Legolas, and Legolas glanced away from Eowyn briefly as if he felt the scorch of Elrohir's gaze. When their eyes met, a smile passed between them, confiding, secret. A lovers' smile.

But as Aragorn looked around the gathered nobles, he saw that he was not the only one who had seen the looks between Elrohir and Legolas. There were one or two others who had noticed and who were looking disapproving and the snatch of conversation he had overheard a moment ago came back to him. And the merchant, Bearas, was staring at Elrohir with a covetous expression in his face that made Aragorn's blood run cold. It reminded him horribly of Saruman.

But a moment later, it had changed and Bearas leaned towards the lords who had been murmuring and said quietly,' Tread softly my lords. You speak of those who were ready to lay down their lives for us. The lord Elrohir led the charge at the Morannon I hear and it was his heroism that saved many. And the Prince of Mirkwood killed more of the Nazgûl's steeds than any and so saved a hundred lives or more. Is this not a little thing of which you speak? Is it not something you can overlook?'

The two nobles looked at Bearas and one opened his mouth as if to speak but changed his mind, a look, almost of fear passed over him and both fell silent.

Aragorn made sure he kept his gaze elsewhere whilst he eavesdropped. He had disliked the Man, Bearas, on meeting him; there was something he could not quite put his finger on but it made his hackles rise. But now he thought he was being unfair. Surely it was not simply that the Man was poor and had come into luck, so perhaps lacked the refined manners and poise of others? Was that it? thought Aragorn. He reflected that he had been brought up amongst the elves of Imladris, and valued grace and elegance. He was marrying Arwen Evenstar after all. But he decided he could like the Man for his unconscious defence of Aragorn's brother and friend. He resolved then to make a point of putting aside his natural dislike and to listen to Bearas. Perhaps, since he was so recently come from the people, he would be an excellent choice for his council?

0o0o


	13. Chapter 13 Partings

There is also a new chapter of Black Arrow but ffnet seems to have another glitch and no alerts are going out. Hope this one is sent.

BETA: ANARITHILIEN – whose kindness and generosity is unbounded!

Chapter 13. Partings.

Legolas leaned against the wall, staring out of the open window. The sky was washed clean in that bright blue that comes after rain. A wind blew from the south and he could smell the sea, like a blue silk scarf on the wind. Gulls wheeled above crying and mewling. He felt that strange joy and elation that made him want to leap out of the window and run to the silver river in the distance, to plunge into its cold deeps. He had not yet seen the sea and its call pulled at his blood.

Instead he leaned a little further out of the window to catch the wind. It was not good for him, he knew, to be so inactive after all these months of fighting and skulking and living in the wild. It made him tetchy and restless. He wanted to go to the sea. Legolas mused. There was nothing to keep him here. He could easily go with Imrahil when Elrohir left.

A little guilt crept in then; he and Elrohir had had a week together with nothing else to do but love each other. It had made him limbs warm and sated with sex, and his heart felt peaceful, like he had found something missing in his soul. He smiled and slid his hands through his hair. But at the same time, they had argued and rowed and shouted at each other, even come to blows once or twice in the sparring ring. But that was part of getting to know each other, he thought dismissing it. They were both warriors after all and the bruises had been nothing new to either of them. It was the pattern of a new relationship. And the making up had been quite delightful.

Behind him, Elrohir was throwing things quickly into saddlebags and stuffing other items into drawers and closing them quickly. He packed like he lived, like a whirlwind, thought Legolas fondly, for Elrohir was to leave with Elladan today. They were to ride with Eomer and his army, and Eowyn was to go with them. It bothered Legolas a little that Eomer might be hurt by Elrohir's presence but he thought that Eomer perhaps remembered the time they had together more fondly now, and less painfully. Since they had fought together in Dagorlad, Eomer seemed to have accepted his place amongst Men as a King and therefore he had to find himself a wife he could love and have children with, who would make him happy as Legolas surely would not.

Legolas turned and watched Elrohir for a while, the stretch of his shirt over his broad swordsman's shoulders, lean hips and waist. His long legs, long hair swinging as he bent and scooped clothes from the floor where he had cast them as he entered the room and just as quickly, entered Legolas.

Remembering, Legolas gave a wicked smile. Elrohir had held Legolas' hands together and though Legolas could easily have wriggled free, he chose not to and allowed Elrohir the pretence of power. It had been arousing for both of them and Elrohir had been masterful and dominant.

Remembering, Legolas turned from the window and pushed himself away from the wall, his easy, loose stride reaching Elrohir within two steps, just in time to run his hands through his loose, unbraided hair and lick his lips. And then he was pressing Elrohir into the bed and pulling Elrohir's shirt free from the waistband. Legolas shoved it up and licked Elrohir from the navel to his chest and hummed as he did so. When he got to Elrohir's nipple, he looked up cheekily and grinned, then licked all the way down and lower this time, mouthing and nipping at the crotch of Elrohir's breeches. 'I love your smell,' he murmured.

Elrohir sighed, already aroused and kissed him hard. At last he pulled away reluctantly. 'Let me pack, Legolas' he said, smiling fondly. 'I have to leave soon and you have distracted me enough today.' He brushed his hand over Legolas' hair and pushed himself to his feet.

'Why don't I come with you?' Legolas asked for the umpteenth time. He lay on the bed with his hands behind his head and his long legs crossed. 'You could tell your father that we are lovers at the same time,' he added with a grin.

'I will tell my father nothing.' Elrohir stuffed a shirt into his bag vehemently and Legolas watched, a prickle of unease in his belly.

'You will not tell your father about us?' Legolas asked, uncertain and anxious. He wondered why Elrohir would not speak of him to Elrond. 'Are you ashamed of being seen with a wild Woodelf?' he said lightly, but he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge now.

Elrohir laughed. 'Am I ashamed of you? Never!' he declared.

Legolas breathed. 'Then what will you tell him?' he asked again, quietly, insistent. A small niggle wormed its way through his doubt, and he remembered how the elves of Imladris viewed his own folk. More dangerous. Less wise. It had been said by others too. Pippin had blurted out that Gandalf had told Bilbo that once. But he did not think that Elrohir believed that, he told himself.

'I will tell him nothing,' Elrohir said, his voice irritated now. 'I do not care what he thinks.'

Legolas stood up and went to look out the window again. He stood with his back straight and his long hair pulled over one shoulder. He did not understand why Elrohir would not tell his father of them unless this was not serious to Elrohir. When Aragorn had asked that they be discrete, for in Gondor there was still respect for the Laws which disapproved of the love between two men, Elrohir had been dismissive and annoyed and so this reticence to tell his father was unexpected and new to Legolas.

Elrohir was still shoving things into his pack. 'I do not wish everyone to know my business,' he said carelessly, as if that were an explanation.

'Your business?' Legolas turned. 'Your _business?_ Is that all this is? You speak of our love as it were merely a…' He waved his hand inarticulately. '…something to be done.'

Elrohir shook his head, puzzled. 'I do not want everyone to know what we do!'

' _What we do_? You make it sound so sordid.' Legolas scooped up Elrohir's tunic where he had flung it earlier and threw it at him.

Elrohir snatched it out of the air and stared at Legolas in surprise that it had become so heated, so suddenly. He did not speak.

'Is that what you truly think?' Legolas continued, his eyes simmering. 'That this is just some little tumble that the Great Elrohir Elrondion had with some backwater Elf he met in the War, and never to be spoken of? Is that what this is to you?' He hated the note of despair in his voice, of pleading.

'No! No.' Elrohir moved now and stood behind Legolas. He sighed. 'No... You know I do not think that. You are the most glorious thing that has ever happened to me. _Ever_. How could you think that?'

'Come,' he said gently and brushed his fingers against Legolas' arm, and just the touch alone made Legolas shiver. Elrohir saw it and stroked him again, leaned in and pressed himself against Legolas so he felt the stiffness against his thigh. Elrohir's grey eyes were half closed in lust, heavy with desire. But Legolas shook himself and pulled away slightly.

'Please, answer me first.'

'No!' Elrohir protested. 'This is not just a tumble. How could you even think that?' Elrohir pulled away himself then, stiff-backed and rigid . 'Do you think so little of me?'

'Then why do you not speak of me to your father?'

'He already knows who you are,' Elrohir said and now he sounded irritated. 'I told you, I do not care what he thinks!'

'He does not know what I am to you.'

Elrohir stepped away and looked at Legolas. Legolas lifted his hand to his own cheek, feeling stupid, insecure. It was unlike him and he wondered why it mattered, for it had never mattered before. He looked down and let his shoulders drop. 'It doesn't matter,' he said defeated. Annoyed with himself. 'Tell him what you like. Don't tell him. It isn't important.'

Elrohir frowned. 'It is important,' he said suddenly. 'What my father thinks is not important but _you_ are my lover, my beloved. You are everything to me.' He slid his arms around Legolas' waist. 'I love you. You are everything to me.'

Suddenly all the tension went from Legolas and he turned in the circle of Elrohir's arms and lay his head upon Elrohir's shoulder. He sighed. 'I am being a fool. Like some love-sick maid swooning and sighing and demanding assurances,' he said. 'Forgive me.'

'There is nothing to forgive,' said Elrohir with a smile. He smelled Legolas hair, the scent of meadowgrass and sunshine on new-mown hay. 'I love you. No one else matters.'

'I love you too.'

Elrohir pulled him closer. 'You do?'

Legolas blinked and looked at him, puzzled. 'Of course. Do you not feel how our songs entwine?'

Elrohir pulled a wry smile. 'It is not as easy for me to see this as you…' He leaned his cheek against Legolas' head. 'I need to hear the words,' he murmured.

Legolas laughed and shook his head. 'Listen to us!' he declared. 'I need you to tell me I matter enough for you to speak to your father about me and you need me to tell you I love you! Are we warriors who stood before the Black Gate and defied Sauron himself or a pair of love-sick maids mooning over our faithless swains?'

Elrohir's shoulders dropped too and he grimaced at himself. 'I do not feel like the warrior who stood before the Black Gates when I am with you,' he said humbly. 'I feel like the unworthy suitor who cannot quite believe he has even been allowed past the threshold, let alone stolen a kiss.'

Legolas snorted. 'You have to stop that,' he said. 'This adoration is not arousing.'

At that moment, a fist pounded on the door. 'My lord! They await you in the square.'

They looked at each other. Then Elrohir lifted a hand to Legolas' cheek. 'We are no longer before the Morannon,' he said. 'We must be more discrete. For Aragorn's sake.'

Legolas nodded. 'Kiss me now, before you go. And let us not embarrass Aragorn by falling upon each other in public.' He drew Elrohir into an embrace and clutched at his shoulders, pulling him close, wanting him closer than his own skin.

Laughing, Elrohir pulled away regretfully. 'I must go. I hear them gathering in the square. Do you want me to appear flushed and undone with desire?'

'Yes,' said Legolas firmly. But he released Elrohir and watched him as he stopped to retrieve his pack, his sword.

As Elrohir buckled on his sword, Legolas stared. He knew now it was called Áicanaro. The black metal gleamed dully, like some strange alien metal not found on this earth. He did not want to listen to its song for it was unearthly and bloody. He did not want to touch it either.

Elrohir stood before him, sword at his hip, pack on his shoulder, cloaked and booted. His long black hair was caught up in a high tail that accentuated his cheekbones, his grey eyes full of passion. It was as if Legolas saw him again for the first time all those months ago when Elrohir strode past him in Imladris, out of the blazing sun and passed him, merely turning his head to look at Legolas as he passed, leaving Legolas almost swooning with desire. He laughed and flung his arms about his beloved.

'Stay safe, my Ravéyön,' he said softly and ignored Elrohir's slight shudder. 'Do not fight orcs, slay dragons, argue with Elladan, dispute with Galadriel!'

Elrohir kissed him, smiling against his mouth and left.

0o0o

They were to ride with the Rohirrim and Elrohir had decided he would do his best to be civil to Eomer for Aragorn's sake. And Legolas', for he had urged Elrohir to be generous with Eomer. 'He has lost the Man who was father to him, his brother Theodred too. And now his sister will leave him too, to wed Faramir. He is newly King himself and unexpectedly so. Be kind.'

So he had decided to try. For Legolas' sake.

He glanced up to the palace and saw the gleam of pale gold of Legolas' hair amongst the nobles assembled to watch their departure. Legolas stood with the hobbits who were standing upon a low wall so they could see. Nearby stood the merchant, Bearas. Elrohir had not spoken to him since they had stood together awaiting Aragorn's arrival into the city, but Aragorn had elevated him to his court and council. All seemed to speak well of him, except Legolas who did not like him though the Woodelf could not say why when he was asked. Even now, he could see Legolas' face tighten and his dislike was clear as Bearas made some light comment that had the hobbits laughing.

Eomer's horse circled nervously and excitedly but his own Barakhir stood still, head flung up and nostril flaring. He could feel the muscles bunched and ready to fly at the merest suggestion and stroked his glossy black neck affectionately. And then Imrahil led his own grey horse from the stables and stood beside Elladan.

There was a loud cheering from the balconies above and Imrahil looked up to where two women waved and threw flowers at his feet. Their hands were stained with ink and their breath smelled of cheap spirits.

'Blessings upon you, Prince Imrahil!' they cried in voices only slightly slurred with drink.

Elrohir glanced up and Elladan gave a wry smile. 'You wonder at their fondness? ' he said. 'These two were drunk and in the gutter. The Night Watch was about to put them in the stocks but Imrahil intervened. They are ignorant and unlettered.' Elladan told Elrohir. He wrinkled up his nose and one of them now waved at him. 'And they smell rather dreadful.' He smiled at Imrahil fondly. 'But it seems they have become quite fixated, following him around and touching his robes for luck.'

Elrohir watched Elladan carefully, the way he stood close to Imrahil but not touching. His fond gaze and lingering looks were obviously those of one besotted. But Elrohir wondered if his heart were quite so easily won by fair words and fair visage. It was true that Imrahil was lordly and wise, but he was still a Man.

Elrohir did not want to think on that. It would break him to choose between Elladan and Legolas.

Imrahil mounted his horse and grimaced slightly for his bones clicked in his knees and Elrohir saw that in spite of his fair face, he was not a young Man. He was widowed and had children old enough to take the reins of government should he wish, Elrohir realised.

He glanced again at Elladan whose gaze was on Imrahil and Imrahil turned his head towards Elladan. His gaze was soft and pleased. Elrohir could not help the squeeze of pain in his heart at the thought of Elladan making the same Choice as Arwen.

He was still standing unmounted beside Barakhir when Eomer lifted his hand and led the Eored from the city, with Eowyn at his side. Clattering hooves and the soft harrumph of horses as they passed finally roused Elrohir from his thoughts. He stepped carefully onto the mounting block, for his leg was better but not yet strong enough, and swung his good leg over Barakhir's back. He gathered up the reins and settled into the saddle, turning to find Legolas again in the crowd.

At first, Legolas did not see him for he was staring at Bearas. The Man had his hand on Legolas' arm and Legolas was looking down at his hand as if it were a snake.

'Elrohir!' called Elladan, and Elrohir was distracted for a moment and then when he looked back, he could not see Bearas and Legolas had turned back to the square and waved at Elrohir. So he thought no more about the strange incident and with a final look at his beloved, he turned Barakhir and followed Elladan through the White City, the cheering crowds who threw rose petals and ribbons in their path. The gates stood open, although they were rough and repaired, and first the Rohirrim passed through, then Dol Amroth and finally the Sons of Thunder.

0o0o

Bearas watched the tall blond elf standing amongst the crowd gathered to watch the Men of Rohan leave the White City. He stood taller than any Man and many heads turned to look for he was very fair and graceful. There was a belief amongst the ordinary folk that he would bring plenty and good fortune to those he touched. It was nonsense of course, Bearas thought. More interesting was that which was between Legolas of the Woodland Realm and Elrohir, son of Elrond. And how he might use it.

He had already, he knew. Making sure that the King heard him defend the two against snide comments from two who should have been more careful.

The relationship between the two elves did not shock Bearas, for he had lived long in the mountains and there were stranger practices in the remote places of Gondor. It intrigued him in a way that confused and surprised him, for he held no superstition or prejudice, and yet…he reacted towards the son of Elrond particularly in a way that Bearas himself could not understand. He was drawn to him like a magnet. Wanted to touch him. To draw him closer than skin. To absorb and be absorbed by him…to kneel before him and bare his throat and watch the darkness _devour_ him…

Bearas passed a hand trembling over his eyes. Such strange thoughts came to him. Now and again it felt like he had emerged from a pool and looked about and saw where he was, who he was and did not recognise himself…And then he was pulled back down, submerged and could only look out like he was seeing through a glass and no one could hear him. His mouth moving and words came out that he did not control, that he would not have even thought when he lived in the mountains. And now the King himself not only knew who Bearas was, but had listened to his council. How did he even come to be here in the palace of the King of Gondor?

He leaned against the flat, warm stone wall, breathing hard and feeling how his heart beat, blood pumped. He felt like he was burning up. Looking down at his hands, he noted how they were worn with work but not with age; beneath the weathered skin, veins pumped. He turned then over so the palms faced upwards and stared at them as if they were not his.

When had he gained this knowledge of how Men thought, how to influence them? Where did he find this impulse to manipulate, to politic? To have power? It had never been in his thoughts before. He used to long for ease and comfort, to have enough to give his wife and daughter. To make sure the babies did not die…

On his finger, the ring glowed softly. It warmed him, reassured him, seemed almost to speak.

This good fortune has come to me, he found himself thinking. I have been lucky, that's all. And this is just what I deserve. And I am bringing good to more people than just my own family. Look at the number of poor I have helped. Look at the widows and orphans who now have food and shelter because I have provided it, I have persuaded the King what to do.

 _You are doing good. The people have benefitted from you at the King's side._

Yes. I am doing good. No matter that he was not quite at the King's side.

 _Not yet perhaps…but soon. There is more you can do if you had more power._

 _If you knew where the Mirror was, you could bring others to help you…_

Bearas did not know about this mirror but the benign voice was soothing and told him what he needed to do to bring riches and influence, so he listened and did what it bid him.

But it needed this mirror. And the mirror was in Minas Morgul so somehow he had to find a way of getting there.

He stroked the ring, feeling it warm his skin and the power leaked into the air, turned it faintly oily. Strange that Bearas himself felt it always , a constant, but no one else seemed aware unless he was actually using the ring to influence people. He did not dare to use it when the Elves or the Wizard were around, and faded into the background, assumed an air of diffidence and deference.

He found himself walking softly, through the crowd and away from the buzz and crush of the crowds and in the King's rose garden. There were no guards and no one challenged him for none expected anyone to breach the King's private garden. It was the King's refuge and that was well known. This was a peaceful garden, a place of quiet in the heart of the teeming, crowded city, thought Bearas and found a stone bench amongst the roses, half hidden and discrete.

He had not intended but fortune was on his side, as it seemed always to be in these times. For not long after, he heard voices, quietly speaking and approaching. Now Bearas was on the King's council but not yet, as he had already noted, quite in the King's confidence and it would surely be considered an impertinence that he was sitting here in the rose garden. So he sat quietly and leaned against the warm stone wall at his back, half closed his eyes as if asleep, his fingers curled into a fist about the ring.

'… stand down the guard or leave it as it is?' It was Faramir's voice. Bearas knew Faramir was over-sensitised to the feelings of others, he thought. Weak. Overly kind. It came from the cruelty with which his own father, Denethor, had shown him. This Bearas had learned from lesser nobles, anxious for Bearas' patronage, both money and influence.

And now the other Man with whom Faramir spoke, sighed heavily. 'In truth it is Gandalf should decide.'

Bearas froze. It was the King himself. He dared not be found skulking in the King's garden; it was presumptuous and the King may decide he had overstepped his mark and dismiss him from the council almost before he had even taken up his position.

The King and Steward were strolling down a path that ran parallel to the one that Bearas had taken. With luck, it would not run into this one and the roses were dense enough now perhaps to hide him. He clenched his fingers into a fist around the ring on his finger, old gold, wrought about with spells and sorcery it crept out from between his fingers, turned the air oily and Bearas suddenly felt like he was looking out through glass, like he was not really there but watching from another place.

'He does not say what it is, or what danger it brings but I think we must continue to guard it. Is it safe?' the King continued.

Bearas felt the ring still, and grow in its alertness, listening. What is it that the Wizard wanted guarding? That was dangerous and secret?

'I have it somewhere no one would think of looking,' Faramir said but his voice did not sound pleased. There was …an edge of fear? Of something, anxiety?

'I for one am puzzled as to why Gandalf ever brought it here,' the King said. Now they drew alongside Bearas where he hid and he drew back still further.

'Indeed. We do not question but perhaps it would have been better left where it was….' Faramir's voice faded as they moved further along the path. 'But the guard is nervous there and I cannot blame them. Perhaps a different place?'

'Perhaps a different guard?' The King countered and they moved out of earshot. 'One less afraid of ghosts?'

Bearas licked his dry lips. Now the danger had passed, he felt that sense of being behind glass slip away, like he had been allowed to step out from behind something. He let his head drop and looked at the ground. There had been some rain over the weeks but not much and the earth was dry and pale. Limestone, he thought. Like the mountains of his home and for a moment he wished to be back there, where life was harder but less complicated. Where he felt at least it was his own. But a stronger voice drowned out those doubts, was insistent, loud.

 _What is that is guarded and is dangerous, brought by the Wizard? Where has the Wizard been? Where would no one think to look and gives the Steward fear? Where Men fear ghosts?_

Bearas felt a strange, fluttery excitement in his belly. Quietly he rose to his feet and almost as if something were thinking for him, he found himself propelled back out into the busy square, amongst the excited people of the city.

Where in the city would Faramir put something dangerous and secret? Where would make the guards nervous and anxious?

He looked across the city square and directly opposite him was the Rath Dínen, the Silent Street that led to the Houses of the Dead.

0o0o

The air was heavy and the sky threatened rain. Storm, thought Legolas as he moved about in the upstairs of the house Aragorn had given the fellowship. The hobbits were sprawled in the garden, wreathed in pipe smoke and laughing together. Gandalf had not really been seen for days, having closeted himself away in the library muttering to himself about Nimloth and Isildur. Gimli was thoroughly enjoying bossing about the engineers and builders of the city and supervising the reconstruction of the gates, hands stuck in his belt and feet planted firmly apart.

But Legolas felt he drifted like smoke, from one room to another, half listening to the various conversations. Not really part of one group, no longer the fixed point for Gimli …the Sea lingered in his thoughts and Elrohir was an emptiness in his heart that he longed for.

There was one room left unoccupied in the house and Legolas found himself standing in the middle of the room with his meagre belongings on the iron bed. He looked down at the worn pack that he had brought with him from the Wood, crossing the Hithaeglir to Imladris and then the secret journey with the Ring. He suddenly felt tired. So much had happened since he had found Anglach's torn and tortured body, limply hanging from the tree in which Smeagol had hidden, refusing to come down until Orcs had attacked to release him.

Legolas drew a breath but found his hands shaking. He stared at them, and then clutched one in the other and hugged them to his chest. But a sense of panic bubbled in his belly and chest and he found himself taking wide panting gasps of air as if he were running.

A small, silver-framed mirror hung on the wall behind him and he turned to stare into it in shock. His face seemed to swim in the dim light, paler than usual, eyes wide and the pupils huge. I look ill, he thought. Faded.

In the strange storm light, shadows seemed to creep in from the open window as clouds chased across the sky and the curtain lifted slightly in the wind, as if something had peeked in at him. He turned suddenly but there was nothing. Just shadows. He turned back to the mirror. Was that just his own shadow standing just behind him, at his shoulder? He felt cold and his fingertips prickled.

He turned his head quickly. But it was still only shadows.

Shuddering, he strode quickly to the mirror hanging on the wall and lifted it down, carefully turned it over and leaned it, mirror side against the wall.

0o0o

tbc


	14. Chapter 14 The Silent Street

**So many thanks to those still reading and apologies for the delay in posting this. I have come to a tricky bit and was not quite sure how it proceeds. But clarity now.**

 **As always, my very fabulous Anarithilien beta'd this so thank you.**

 **Chapter 14: The Silent Street**

A man sat silently in the corner of the tavern, barely seen. A stranger to this hostelry. He sank back into the darkness. Shadows drew close to him as if listening. Suddenly the door opened and an unseasonal wind blasted through the door as it opened and shut quickly.

A young man was blown in, dead leaves followed him and rattled on the floorboards. Heads turned, voices raised in greeting. The young man wore the livery of the Tower Guard and he laughed and called to a woman as she passed him holding the big glass tankards, three in each fist.

Then the barman called him over and pushed a glass tankard towards him, muttered something and then nodded over towards the stranger. The young man turned to follow the barkeep's direction. He lifted the tankard and raised it thanks to the stranger and then having taken a long draught, he pushed his way between the noisy drinkers and came to stand before the stranger.

'What have I done to deserve this?' he asked smiling. His pale blue eyes were sharp and quick, darting round the room.

'Your name is Maltök?' the stranger said rather than asked.

Maltök slid alongside him on the bench and leaned his elbows on the dirty table, marked with beer and stained with the rings of glasses left too long. 'It is.' He looked sideways at the stranger. 'Is there something you want?'

'It is a mere whim, nothing more,' said the stranger. He leaned back and in the lamplight a red gemstone flashed briefly on the stranger's finger and Maltök was captivated.

'What do you want of me, lord?' he said, eyes fixed upon the ring.

Bearas smiled. 'I merely wish to see the tomb of the Steward Denethor. He was a great man and had no proper funeral. I wish to pay my respects. He did me some kindness when I was young.'

Maltök put his head on one side thoughtfully. 'It can be done, lord. But it will be difficult and the way is forbidden to any. It is always guarded.'

Bearas slipped three fat gold coins towards the young man. 'There are ways,' he said. His eyes seemed so dark as to be almost black and Maltök's lips parted in horror but he did not speak. 'Find a way.'

0o0o

For five days, Bearas sat watching from the window of his rich house on the sixth level. The windows had leaded glass and heavy curtains of wool embroidered with bears and roses, which he had taken as his heraldic device. He deliberately ignored the mispronunciation of his name by his enemies, those nobles he could not win or who were suspicious of a common man made rich by Fortune. In retaliation he placed more and more emphasis on the _Bear_ in his name and slurred over the suffix. Lord Herion was one who ridiculed him but Bearas did not care. Revenge would come.

The ring was warm on his finger, gave him confidence, stretched itself in his mind like a long cat…or a serpent. He did not know which.

Now he watched as a messenger ran in the street below and knocked upon the heavy, wooden carved door of his rich merchant's house. The messenger was scruffily dressed, not a liveried servant.

He saw the door open and the maidservant leaned out to speak to the boy, shortly and rather dismissively and the boy thrust a note into her hand before she could shut the door in his face. Bearas twitched the curtain aside and leaned out of the window, calling to the boy.

The boy looked up astonished, his cheeks flushed from running and his eyes bright. Hungry.

'Here! You will have earned this,' Bearas called and tossed down a copper coin to the lad. He watched the boy's mean and narrow face split into a grin.

Bearas watched him coldly. 'Do another errand and there is another coin in it for you.'

'Name it, my lord.'

'You know the lord Gimli of Erebor? Tell me where he is now that I may speak with him about some stone I wish to purchase on behalf of the King,' Bearas lied easily.

'I do know of him, milord. An' I know he is at the Third Gate even now for he is watching the new Gates being put into position.'

Bearas smiled thinly. 'Good. Here. For you troubles.' He flipped a coin towards the boy. 'Come to me again when he is finished that I may speak with him.'

'Very well, milord.'

Behind him, a soft, nervous knock on the door. He did not turn but half listened to the girl, awkward and fumbling in his presence. He did not care.

'My lord, a message arrived for you.'

'Leave it there,' he said, not turning from the window.

He heard the girl leave but still stared out of the window for a while. Only when she was gone did he turn and flip open the message.

It was from Maltök.

He had found it.

Suddenly his plans had changed. No longer did he need the dwarf-lord with his rock-solid head, nor the irritating elf that whatever Bearas did, looked down his supercilious nose at him. No. He did not need any of them now. He had found what he needed.

0o0o

At supper he ignored his wife but the new baby cried incessantly, its thin wails piercing him and dragging his attention from his thoughts.

He speared slices of bloody meat from the platter. Blood pooled on his own plate, dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

The baby squalled loudly and nothing his wife could do would calm it.

'If you do not want me to take that squalling infant and dash its brains out on the steps, you will take it from me, woman,' he said coldly. She scooped it up and scurried away without looking at him.

'Da?'

He looked up and frowned. The child who had come with them from the mountains, Gerda he remembered, sat at the table staring at him. Her hair was gold, he thought. Like the ring. His finger stroked over it and comforted him.

'Have you been good today, Gerda?' he asked softly. And when she nodded hesitantly, he said, 'You must learn to sew and sing and pray. You will make a good marriage soon. Connect us with a noble family. They will give me connections.'

She had looked down at her plate, half her dinner growing cold on the fine porcelain, but he did not care. She was a bit young still but it would not be long before she began her monthly flow and then she could be married for a rich dowry to some impoverished nobles who still had alliances with the King. Old blood, no money. He was new blood, new money.

Smiling, he turned the ring on his finger and swallowed the almost raw meat on his plate without tasting it. He was so hungry. He never seemed to be able to eat enough to satisfy his hunger.

He didn't notice when Gerda left. He cared less that his wife did not reappear and devoured all the meat. Even then he called for more.

He found he could not bear to eat bread or fruit or any other food. He could not drink wine. He had not eaten enough but was aware that the servants were anxious and so he sent them away and waited instead for midnight. Then he threw a black cloak around his shoulders and slipped silently, like a shadow out of the house, like he had never been there.

0o0o

It was a dark, moonless night but clear and the stars hard and bright on the stones of the empty city streets. The watch approached and he sank back into the shadows. The two men passed him, talking softly, and did not notice him at all although one of them shivered and pulled his cloak about his shoulders more tightly. It was cold and even in May, his breath turned to frost.

He stopped at last in a square that had been completely ruined and the dwarf had not reached with his plans to rebuild the city. Here the empty, abandoned houses were all in darkness, ruined by the bombardment by the Nazgûl's fell beasts. The jagged outline of the crumbling houses seemed to tear at the sky. Not a soul was about. All was silent and still. Ahead of him, the Silent Street that led to the Tombs of the Kings.

He waited here for Maltök as instructed, letting his cloak fall about him, the hood pulled low over his face. It was strange, the sensation of being shrouded in the black cloak, almost like disappearing in the darkness of the night.

 _Nine for mortal men_

He started and turned around.

The darkness seemed to intensify, shift and Bearas stepped back. For a moment his heart clenched with fear and sweat broke out on his forehead, lip and he felt the fine linen shirt cling to his back. A silent scream tried to force itself from his chest, clawing its way out like a trapped animal. Somehow he had become caught, ensnared, somehow he felt that he himself had been swallowed by something that inhabited him, and he was sunk deep into his own belly and looking up towards the light that he could no longer reach. That slow scream started in his throat but was strangled by a long shadow that reached into his mouth, forced itself down his throat and crushed his chest, his heart….

His blood was pumping through veins. He gazed at his own hand in wonder and flexed his fingers…fingers of flesh and blood and bone. Sinews stretched, Blood pumped. He breathed in cold air that burned his throat and lungs….ah. Skin. Sensation. Breath. Texture. Smell. He rubbed his fingertips together and felt the rough catch of his skin.

A slow pressure pressed down on him then, struggled with the man inside.

 _Help me! Help me!_

He felt like he was in a nightmare and running through tunnels pursued by a beast of unimaginable horror. He stumbled and fell against the cold stone of the bridge that spanned the cleft in the rock. Leaning over the parapet he stared into the depths below, the plunge into the dark and thought he should throw himself from the bridge.

Gerda and Marinel, his wife, would be better off without him. They had money now. His fists curled about the stone rail and his knuckles clenched white with the strain. He leaned over the stone balustrade until he stood on tiptoe, barely touched the ground and thought about casting himself into the abyss below where the dark writhed and swirled.

 _You will die. And your soul be devoured._

He knew it was the Ring. It spoke to him. Its voice was metallic, insidious, resentful. It made him hate.

'I am not like this!' he cried but his voice was weak and lost in the darkness. 'I am lost….Help me.' But the words were snatched away by the wind.

Suddenly there were footsteps ringing on the cold hard stones. He turned, gasping, but a surge from the ring wrestled him back down so all he could do was claw, drowning in the darkness.

When Maltök appeared with another guardsman marching confidently up the Silent Street towards the square, Bearas had recovered. He stood in the shadows and watched as Maltök nodded to him and then jerked his head towards the other Tower Guard at his side. This new one wore a knowing smile plastered across his smug face. Bearas did not smile. His fingers stroked the ring's smooth gold, caressed the red stone and felt warmth flood him. There was a red light behind his eyelids like he had closed his eyes and looked up into the sun.

He passed the new guard two gleaming coins, and ignored the greed in his eyes, the slap of his lips as he laughed and shoved them into his pocket. Bearas despised them both, would use them both. The new guard was called Tyrises. He stank of garlic and onions and beer.

'You are not the only one who has asked to see Denethor's tomb,' Tyrises said. 'There are many who feel he was not given proper regard.' The Man smiled greedily.

But Bearas pushed down the dislike, the contempt and slipped his arm over Maltök's shoulders companionably, let the ring warm Maltök, bring him close, make him feel honoured that this important and influential merchant should choose him, should show him such favour and familiarity. Bearas felt Maltök relax and smile and a thin sneer curled over Bearas' lips. The ring slid its long black tentacles into Malök's mouth, into his ears and nose, wrapped itself about his head and neck and chest and squeezed so he could no longer think but nodded along with everything Bearas suggested.

He followed the two men into the tombs of the Stewards. Once inside, the close dark was cold. In the gloom of the sputtering torchlight, shadows ran ahead of them as if excited, leading him on. They paused before the tomb of Denethor but he was not interested.

'Show me what else is here,' he said, knowing the two men were enslaved now, and their slack mouths, glazed eyes showed him he was powerful now. Invincible.

Maltök led him slowly through the cold House of the Dead, past the carved images of long dead stewards, their hands uplifted in blessing or approbation, he cared not which. Maltök paused before a narrow stone door and glanced at the guard, then pushed open the door.

Within was a small guard room. A fire flickered in a brazier and another man was seated on a low stool, warming his hands.

When Maltök entered he stood. 'Right glad I am that you are back, Maltök,' he said, rubbing his hands. Then he saw Bearas. 'What is this? You cannot be here.' His face changed to one of aggression and anger. His hand fell to his sword. 'It is forbidden that anyone else should be here.'

But the other guard slid up behind him and before the guard knew anything, had drawn a heavy bludgeon and thumped him over the head. He collapsed slowly to the ground.

'Where is it?' Bearas asked, almost breathless. It was here, he could feel it. His nerves tingled and every hair on his body stood alert.

Maltök drew back a curtain and there in the corner, the shadows gathered like a shroud around the hessian-wrapped mirror. He could hardly keep his hands from trembling. Ripping the hessian from the mirror, he stood back. There was a white robe draped over its surface and he ground his teeth. The zigûrun. He had suffocated the Mirror's power.

He leaned forwards in a fury and tore the white robe from the mirror, threw it to the floor and stared into its silvered surface.

Breathless. Blood thundered.

Here.

At last.

In the darkness a silvery glow swam and coalesced into a face. His face. It moved closer towards the surface and he breathed in wonder.

But the reflection moved when he did and it was still his face. Not enough.

 _No. It is not enough…_

He turned his head to look back into the heavy darkness of the Tombs.

In the guardroom, he could see lamplight falling on the unconscious guard. Tyresis said something in a crude tone and Maltök laughed- but behind his eyes was a horror.

'Bring him here.'

Bearas knew he spoke, felt his mouth form the words, saw their startled faces. But they obeyed. They had no choice.

He leaned over the inert body of the young guard and drew a knife that flashed briefly in the lamplight. A spurt of blood spattered over his hand, over the marble floor. Over the silvered surface of a mirror.

There was a flash of light, sparking deep inside the Mirror. And Bearas moved towards it, reached his hand out and touched the surface of the mirror. His fingers sank into it, and he pressed so his hand sank into it up to the wrist and he closed his eyes and then a cold, cold hard bony finger met his.

He opened his eyes in horror.

0o0o0o

Faraway, two black horses galloped over the flat grasslands. Clouds gathered over the huge horizon, towering thunderheads and the wind from the East swept over the long grass so it rolled like a sea. Behind them the Eastfold, and the éored of Eomer and Eowyn were returning to Meduseld.

Elrohir did not regret leaving the Rohirrim. In spite of the civility both he and Eomer worked at, leaving them at the Entwash had been a relief for them both. Now it was but he and Elladan. As it had always been.

Suddenly something pulled at his blood. Like the moon pulled the tide and he hauled ungenerously on Barakhir's mouth, turning him a tight circle which the black horse fought, stamping and tossing his head so the silver bit flashed in the dim stormlight. Elrohir turned his face back towards the south, towards Minas Tirith.

 _We are Nine…._

 _Ravéyön._

0o0o

tbc


	15. Chapter 15 The Three Hunters

Beta: As always, the wonderfully patient Anarithilien.

So many thanks to those still reading and especially to freddie, Nako, Kim (so lovely to hear from you!) and Alanic, raider-K, firerosedreamer and earthdragon (sorry for everything that's going to happen) and nimruzir. Thank you for keeping reviewing- you keep me posting here. You were all so patient with no Legolas in the last chapter that you have lots in this chapter!

 **Chapter 15: The Three Hunters**

Elrohir was still staring down the long road they had already travelled- the whisper echoing in his mind.

He was suddenly filled with dread and pulled Barahkir to a standstill, his long black mane pulled by the same wind that blew back Elrohir's own high tail of raven-black hair.

 _We are Nine…._

 _Ravéyön._

'What are you doing?' Elladan shouted, driving Baraghur in front of his brother. The two horses nipped at each other uncharacteristically. 'Elrohir!'

Elrohir blinked slowly. Fear settled upon him now like carrion and gnawed at his gut. 'I heard…I thought…'

'What?' Elladan quietened now, and smoothed Baraghur's glossy neck. 'Elrohir?'

But Elrohir stared back across the Eastfold, along the shining river towards Minas Tirith. His eyes were wide and the pupils blown wide.

Gently, Elladan leaned across and stroked his hand over Elrohir's arm. 'What is it? What do you feel?'

Elrohir turned his head towards Elladan slowly. He blinked once and shook his head. 'I do not know…I thought…I heard…' Barakhir snorted and tossed his head, skittered sideways so that Elrohir had to shift and hold the reins in one hand.

'An echo of the Nazgûl…a whisper…'

Elladan eased Baghur close to Barakhir so both horses stilled, he soothed them with a spread of calm over the air, let it permeate so that it settled too upon Elrohir. He sighed.

'They are gone,' said Elladan. 'We saw them. Angmar was vanquished upon the Pelennor Field, Khamûl and his brethren were sucked into the Void. How could you hear them? It is surely a lingering of the Black Web perchance?'

Elrohir looked down, turning inwards and saw how there was still a slick of darkness in his blood, though the threads had been incinerated. He shook his head slightly as if to rid himself of the cobweb of dreams.

Elladan reached over and pressed his warm hand upon Elrohir's.

Mountains edged along the Eastfold, the Ered Nimrais behind them and the Hithaeglir ahead of them. Sunlight on the snow, frost in the air. Elrohir breathed in and let it cleanse him.

Elladan let out a shout of challenge and urged Baraghur onwards so his feet kicked up the turf. Barakhir snorted and pulled and Elrohir gave him his head. The Sons of Thunder charged through the Entwash, the sunlight sparkling through the splashing water as they cantered through the ford and surged up onto the dry banks and into the East Emmet towards Lothlorien and all that they had worked towards for so many years.

0o0o0o

Legolas leaned over the parapet of the city walls, wind through his long, long hair, yearning towards the Sea. It had him. He had never understood when in Imladris, others had spoken of the Way West, for so few from his home travelled over the sea.

But the other yearning in his heart was for Elrohir, and whilst he did not sail, nor would Legolas. Elrohir grounded him. Only a week had Elrohir been gone and already he pined.

He laughed softly at the very notion of the passionate storm that was his lover as grounding him in Middle Earth.

He was looking for Gimli when the gulls had passed overhead, he remembered, and pushed away from the wall. With surprise he saw that it was already evening and over the Pelennor Fields, long shadows reached towards the city.

By now the Dwarf would be back in the house that Aragorn had given the Fellowship, he thought. It was a comfortable house of sufficient size for them all, with nice gardens and trees. Legolas wondered if Aragorn was lonely up in the palace of the Stewards on his own with his councillors and nobles, and those high ceilings and crowded council chambers. For it was not like his own father's palace with its small chambers and homely kitchen, the apartments and pools and the river rushing through it. That was more like the woods than the Steward's palace of pale stone and smooth marble floors.

As he dropped from the city walls into one of the quieter city squares, empty at this time before evening when most folk were eating, he saw a familiar figure sitting on some shallow steps beneath the city walls. It was one of the Men who had accompanied Legolas into Minas Morgul.

'Arduin,' he called softly. 'Well met!'

Arduin looked up and there was such desolation in his eyes it made Legolas pause. He had seen that before. In the Wood. On the Pelennor Field.

Loss. Bereavement.

When he saw it was Legolas, Arduin scrambled to his feet and bowed. But Legolas shook his head in refusal of such abeyance. 'You do not need to bow to me, my friend,' he said. 'We are comrades.' Then he bent his head to look at the Man more closely and in concern. 'What has happened?'

Arduin pressed his lips together for a moment and looked down, blinking hard. Legolas leaned forwards in concern. 'It is Ioralas. You remember him? He came with us into Minas Morgul.'

Legolas nodded. Of course, that was the Man who had comforted Arduin when he had been scared of going into the ancient, haunted city. 'Yes. I remember him of course.'

'He has disappeared. Gone. And no one knows what has happened to him.' Arduin's voice splintered.

'Legolas stepped towards him and reached out. 'I am sorry. I …I would have come sooner had I known.' He paused for he might not have come. After all, he did not really know either of these Men. Then a little thought began to niggle away at him. 'What do you mean? He has disappeared? Does the King know?'

Arduin gave a strangled laugh. 'No one cares, my lord.'

Legolas blinked. 'Have you told the King?'

'My lord, the King will not listen to me, a mere lowly guard in his army.' Arduin glanced up suddenly. 'Forgive me my lord. I did not mean to speak so…Please do not report me.'

Legolas leaned down to peer at the Man, concern in his eyes. 'The King will not punish you for your concern for your friend.' He folded himself so he sank down beside the Man on the low step. The limestone was warm from the day's sun and a scent of early jasmine drifted from a garden nearby. 'Come. Tell me what happened.'

'He was supposed to have been on guard duty. In the Rath Dínen, my lord.' Arduin glanced up at Legolas as if he were expected to know the significance of this but Legolas did not and he did not wish to interrupt the Man at this moment so he stored that away to find out later. 'But he did not turn up. He left the barracks as usual but the sentry he was supposed to relieve said that he did not arrive. He has not been seen in any taverns, or any of his usual haunts. He has simply vanished.'

Arduin's chin was in his hands and his eyes downcast as he spoke. But Legolas listened intently. 'Has there been a search for him?'

'Only I have searched, my lord.' Arduin sighed heavily. 'Oh there was a cursory look round by some of the Tower Guard, but they only found that his clothes have gone and his belongings. They say he has deserted.'

Legolas winced at this; if all his belongings had disappeared, it seemed likely that Ioralas had indeed deserted. Although why he would do so now was a mystery. He glanced at Arduin and steeled himself, then said gently, 'Perhaps he has just gone home. Perhaps the War is finished and he just felt tired…It happens.'

'But he would not leave his old mother. She lives in the lower circles and only has him. He would not abandon her.' Arduin looked up at Legolas but his eyes were hopeless and despairing. 'He would not have gone without telling me.'

Arduin's mouth trembled and he looked down at his hands. 'We have been friends since our first day, lord. And then we were in the siege, and then following the King and…' His voice faltered and Legolas winced in empathy. It was not unlike his own story. 'We thought we would die and Ioralas said he could not bear it if he did not speak…'

Legolas swallowed. He had realised of course, when they walked into the shadow and fear of Minas Morgul. It was the tenderness with which Ioralas had cajoled Arduin into the Tower. It was the concern he showed at Arduin's fear.

'But my lord…Legolas,' Arduin corrected with a brief smile. 'It is one thing to declare yourself to your beloved before the Gates of the Morannon,' Arduin said in a low, anxious voice. 'It is another thing altogether in the City where the Laws are strong.'

Legolas frowned. Aragorn had said the same thing: love between two men would not be understood by the old families, those who were traditional, who held power. It was why he and Elrohir had been discrete, Legolas reminded himself, forgetting that what was discrete for a Woodelf was not quite the same for everyone else. And Elrohir had raged at the constraint for some time before Legolas reminded him that they only did so for Aragorn.

'You have not argued?' he asked Arduin very gently. 'Have things been strained or cool between you?' he added, thinking of how he and Elrohir argued and fought and how easy it would be for either of them to throw everything into a satchel and gallop away, gallop home. He tugged at his sleeve. What if Elrohir did not come back?

'No.' Arduin sounded so utterly miserable that Legolas pushed away his own fears and put his hand on Arduin's shoulder. He leaned in slightly, and half closed his eyes to listen.

Arduin's shoulders slumped under Legolas' hand, as if he gave up all pretence and allowed himself to show his fear and loss. 'We were going to finish this tour of duty and then go and set up a farm somewhere, bring along his old mum. We were going to the Lebinnin. We had saved…' Arduin's voice broke. 'He would not leave with never a word…Where would he go? Suppose he has fallen somewhere, or been attacked and is lying somewhere and no one knows…Suppose he is…'

Legolas leaned in and listened, letting the notes tease out on the wind, humming softly so there was a sense of the sunshine on the white limestone, rock flowers between the cracked pavement and gravelly soil, clear hard water, a smile, gentle hands tilling the soil….

Arduin gasped in surprise and stared at Legolas. Legolas noticed how bright blue were his eyes in his sun-weathered face. There were tears in his eyes but a different look now, not quite the despair of before.

'I will see what I can find out,' said Legolas, moved. 'I cannot believe either that he would simply leave and not tell you.' Legolas smiled kindly and Arduin's face was suddenly transformed. Tears gleamed in his eyes.

'Thank you my lord. Thank you!' He grasped Legolas' hands in his with deep gratitude. 'No one will listen to a simple solider like me but they will listen to you, the Lord Legolas of the North, hero of the War and…'

Legolas laughed, slightly embarrassed and shaking his head interrupted. 'I am naught but a simple solider too,' he said. 'But I do know Aragorn Elessar, King of Gondor and he has his uses.' He smiled. 'I will speak to him on your behalf.'

0o0o

He left Arduin at the square before the barracks. Lime trees surrounded it and in the centre was a fountain. The fountain had been repaired and water splashed companionably into the smooth basin below. There he took to the roofs as it was much quicker and he found himself a little lost in all those narrow alleys and winding streets.

Soon he stood on the sloping pink tiled roof of the house that Aragorn had given the Fellowship. He could hear through the open window below, the sound of Gimli's earth-rich voice and the hot tang of pipeweed drifted upwards. He found he quite liked the smell now; it meant fellowship to him now. The hobbits and Gimli, Aragorn. Gandalf even. He smiled to himself and thought himself fortunate indeed to have found such friends.

'I suppose I could bring more dwarves to build your city.' Gimli's voice was contented, and Legolas knew he was leaning back in a low, well-padded chair, his belly comfortably full and a pipe of Longbottom Leaf smouldering quietly. And it meant Aragorn was there too.

In the garden below Legolas could hear the hobbits' quiet chatter. Merry laughed loudly at something and Pippin's voice raised in protest.

Legolas sat on the edge of the roof, dangling his long legs over the edge and leaned his elbows on his knees and his chin in his cupped hands and thought.

Ioralas was in the Rath Dinnen, he remembered, but he did not know what that was or why a guard was needed there. Perhaps it was somewhere on the city walls, he thought. But Aragorn would know and Aragorn was just …here.

He landed lightly on the window sill and stepped through the open window onto the pale oak floorboards.

There was a stifled curse, a crash and the sound of glass breaking, axe clattering on the wooden floor.

'Legolas! By Durin's Beard and Mahal's balls! One day I will have your head off before I see you!'

Legolas blinked. 'What have I done to offend you, Gimli?' he asked wide-eyed, wondering what on earth had startled the dwarf so badly. 'What has happened?'

'YOU have happened!' Gimli shouted, scooping up the bits of glass and seizing a bit of lace that was on a table nearby. Gimli mopped up the spilt beer with the lace, cursing loudly.

Suddenly there was the sound of scampering feet and the hobbits burst through the door all at once, swords drawn and falling over themselves.

'What is it?' demanded Sam loudly, standing in front of the others and his eyes were defiant, fiery.

Legolas took a step back, holding up his hands appeasing. 'I know nothing, Samwise. But please, put down the sword.'

Sam blinked as if he were coming out of a dream and stared at the sword in his hand. He took a deep breath and turned to Frodo who stood behind him. 'I am sorry, Legolas. I…We…we thought Aragorn was being attacked.'

'We heard a crash and then Gimli's axe…'

'And breaking glass…'

'And Gimli swearing…' said Merry and Pippin at the same time.

Aragorn had not moved, he had not even taken his pipe from his mouth. He was watching them all with a look of deep, wry amusement.

'Legolas came through the window,' he said, eyes fixed upon the hobbits. Then he glanced at Gimli. 'He must have knocked over Gimli's beer.'

'I did no such thing!' Legolas protested and Gimli grinned and Aragorn lifted an eyebrow.

'But I thank you for your quick defence of me,' Aragorn said over Legolas' protests. 'I feel very well protected knowing that I have such valiant guards.' He rose to his feet and with a smile and bow, he ushered the hobbits out of the room, assuring them that he could manage Legolas and Gimli quite well but thank you.

Legolas was sitting in Aragorn's chair when he turned back, his long legs crossed and Aragorn's wine cup dangling from his hand. It was empty.

'That's what you get for taking the dwarf's side over mine,' Legolas said insouciantly and tossed the empty cup to Aragorn. 'And don't start thinking you're King when you're with us,' he added just in case.

Gimli was still muttering so Legolas took the pieces of the broken glass from him gently and as he did so, looked into the dwarf's earth-brown eyes and smiled. 'Was ever a dwarf so loved, Belasen,' he murmured.

Gimli scowled at him. 'Was ever an elf more irritating?'

Legolas disposed of the broken beer glass, wrapping it carefully in the beer-soaked lace and placed it in the coal bucket. Aragorn shook his head as he did so but Legolas ignored him for he needed to ask Aragorn serious questions.

'Aragorn, where is the Rath Dínen?' he asked without further ado.

Aragorn frowned. His pipe had gone out. 'It is the Silent Street that leads to the Hallows,' he said, striking a flame and holding it to his pipe. He sucked on the stem to light the pipeweed. It flared suddenly, casting an orange glow on his face and then lit. He leaned back and looked at Legolas. 'It is where the tombs of the Kings are. Why do you want to know that?' he asked curiously.

Legolas was puzzled. 'A Man has gone missing and he was supposed to be in this Rath Dínen.'

Aragorn looked up. 'Missing?'

'He was supposed to be on guard duty there,' Legolas explained. 'Why do you have a sentry in your tombs? Surely you do not fear desecration of Denethor's tomb?' he asked, for he could think of no reason why guards would be posted over dead men.

Aragorn twitched a little. Then he pressed his lips together as if thinking. 'Well I suppose it does not hurt that you two know. It is that Mirror that Gandalf brought back from Minas Morgul,' he said. 'He wanted somewhere secret and safe for it. I suggested the vaults but he felt there were too many reasons for household staff to be in there especially with the coronation and then the wedding. No one has reason to go to the Rath Dínen and it is easy to guard the way.' He fiddled with his pipe. 'This man…did he abandon his post? I have thought it might be a frightening posting and asked that only the bravest be posted there.'

Legolas frowned. An uneasy feeling crept down his spine.

'You set a Man to guard the Dead?' Gimli shivered. 'I will never forget the Dimholt and passing through the Mountain. Even a dwarf's blood ran cold. How much more a poor Man!'

Aragorn tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair irritably. 'He was not alone, Gimli. They were in pairs so anyone who disappeared must have done so after he was relieved.'

Legolas leapt to his feet. 'Then I must speak with the Man he was on duty with. Surely he will know what has happened?'

'Sit down, Legolas,' Aragorn said patiently. 'Do you think they will speak to you? Look at you. And elf, a hero of the War. The King's companion.' He smiled and pushed himself to his feet. 'And besides, anyone worth speaking to will be in a tavern and you do not like taverns.'

'Not true. I love taverns,' Legolas lied quickly and then added, 'Well if they will not speak to me, they will certainly not speak to Elessar, King of Many Names!'

'No. But they will speak to Strider, who came with the King's Men and is a nobody.' Aragorn grinned and rose to his feet. Only then did Legolas see that he wore not his crimson robe, but the scruffy tunic and hose that he had worn in the Wild. Cleaned and mended it was true.

'I cannot believe you have kept those,' Legolas said wryly. 'And I do not think Arwen will let you keep them.'

'Actually she likes them,' Aragorn said, a little shyly.

Gimli snorted. 'You'll not be thinking of going into any taverns on your own, laddie. I'll be coming with you.'

'Oh well that's discrete!' cried Legolas. 'A Ranger and a dwarf. How inconspicuous. No one will ever guess! You may as well take the hobbits and Gandalf!'

At last Aragorn persuaded both that he should go alone and they could wait outside, Gimli hidden amongst the rubble and Legolas at the window in case there was trouble. And there was no question that all three felt a joy in the thrill of it, the frisson of danger.

'The Three Hunters again.' Aragorn smiled and the weight of kingship slipped from his shoulders for a while.

0o0o0o


	16. Chapter 16 The Missing Guardsman

Thanks as always to my dear mcapps,chasingbluefish, samui, paradis, LayneWolf, RoB, hauntedpoem. And all those leaving kudos. Keeping me writing.

Lots of Legolas and Gimli in this one.

Beta: Anarithilien.

This chapter is dedicated to the memory of Nightwing6, whose wonderful story, To See A World is one of my favourites, even though she never finished it. She wrote wonderfully of Aragorn and Legolas and so I hope the first part of this chapter a fitting tribute.

 **Chapter 16: The missing guardsman**

Aragorn slouched uncharacteristically. His hand cradled the small beer and his hood was pulled down over his eyes. He felt comfort in the well-worn disguise, all the cares of kingship slid from him, and he was simply Strider once again. Two friends outside ready with swords should he need it. He listened to the talk, the friendly greetings, the banter.

This was the tavern most frequented by the soldiers of Minas Tirith and where Arduin and Ioralas most often visited. He could see a number of familiar faces from the Tower Guard but they would not recognise him, no jewels of office, no winged crown or rich robes. They would see what they expected to see.

He shifted so he could overhear a couple of guards' conversation, but all they were doing was gossiping about their wives. Another small group played dice and a couple of women leaned over them.

'Hey Longshanks!' called one cheekily. She tossed her hair and pouted at him. He grinned at her and made a pretence of interest so she sashayed towards him, one hand on her hip. 'I haven't seen you here before,' she murmured. 'I'd have noticed.'

He smiled winningly and slipped a coin beneath the palm of her hand. 'I am looking for an old friend I heard was in the city. We fought together.'

'Aren't you looking for anything else?' the woman leaned against him, her body warm and soft. 'I've got a friend who could join us.' She jerked her head towards another woman, who leaned over a seated guardsman, laughing and the guard leaned back to get a better look at the breasts that strained against her tight bodice.

Aragorn backed away slightly. 'Maybe later.' He smiled warmly, giving her just enough hope. 'My friend owes me some money and I am hoping he can pay me.'

As he thought, she lost a bit of interest. 'His name is Ioralas,' Aragon said. He put his hand on her arm, drawing her back. 'When I have my money, I will come back.'

'Ioralas? Tall, nice looking…' She considered. 'Gentle type.'

'He is a guard in the Tower now I think. Haven't seen him for a while. Good friends with Arduin.'

'Ah. Well you've missed him,' she said. 'He's up sticks and left so they say.' The woman looked up at Aragorn and fluttered her eyelashes, pushed one hand through her hair. 'I'll give you one free,' she said coyly.

Something small and hard hit Aragorn in the back of the head. A nut. He looked over his shoulder irritably to just catch a shadow in the window but he knew it was Legolas.

'Let me find Ioralas and get my money and I'll come back,' he said. 'Do you know where he went?'

'I don't. And if you've already talked to Arduin, I don't think I can help you anymore for they were good mates.' She looked about. 'That man over there knows him. They never seemed very friendly but they always greeted each other. He's a Tower guardsman too. His name is Maltök.'

Aragorn turned his head to see a man standing in the corner, shoulders slumped and looking down into his ale. He did not look up even when Aragorn settled next to him.

'Evening friend, I am looking for Ioralas.' Aragorn turned so the man had to look at him. His face was pale and there were shadows under his eyes.

'Go away, I do not want to speak to you,' he said and shuffled along the bar away from Aragorn.

'I only want to find my old friend,' Aragorn said, and sticking to his story, he added. 'He owes me money but I know he will honour it. If he does not have it, I can wait.' He made himself as unthreatening as possible. 'I see you have Tower guard livery, friend,' he said. 'Perhaps you know another friend of mine? Arduin?'

But the man took his drink and moved away, settling himself on a bench in the corner. This time, Aragorn did not pursue him but draining his own tankard, he pulled his hood over his head and left.

Outside Legolas and Gimli almost pounced upon him in their eagerness.

'I admit you have got a knack for skulking around,' Legolas said grudgingly and Aragorn felt absurdly flattered.

"He told me nothing,' Aragorn admitted. 'Though I am sure he knows something.' [This is said again later and feels repetitious]

'We can easily overpower him between us,' Legolas said, looking at Gimli.

Gimli's eyes glittered in the lamplight. 'Legolas is right. He will talk to us. Just give me five minutes with him.'

'I think perhaps we should arrest him and question him properly,' Aragorn told the disappointed elf and dwarf. And he raised a hand to still their protests. 'I am not going to question him at knife point and I am not having either of you intimidate any of my people into any false confessions.' He looked at them both sternly. 'We do this properly now.' He pulled his hood up and glowered at them both until they agreed resentfully.

'It is easy to find him,' Aragon told them as the three pulled their Lorien cloaks about themselves and drew up their hoods so they faded into the grey shadows. 'I will have him brought to me tomorrow. We will question him properly and promise him protection.' He paused. 'It is clear he was afraid of something. We need to know what that is.'

'Let me question him, Aragorn.,' said Legolas. 'If you wish to do this without hurting him, I am good at that. Not as good as my father. Or Laersul. But I am quite good at giving them a hard stare.'

'A hard stare?' Gimli looked up at him in pity. 'And that is going to make him tell you everything.' He shook his head. 'Aragorn. You need a dwarf to make a stone crack. I am subtle and patient. Give him to me for a day…'

'A day! Ha! That is hardly an interrogation! What will you do, Nana Gimli? Tell him a story and tuck him in in the hope he might talk in his sleep?'

Gimli spluttered in outrage. 'At least I will tell him a story to make his blood curdle in fear of the axes of the Khâzad, but you would tell long, long, long stories of blighted love and bore him into submission.'

Aragorn sighed and let them bicker. He walked ahead of them, leading them through the quiet, dark streets and thought of Arwen's feet walking these very stones, hallowing the streets of his city with her beauty, her softness, her roundness in all the right places…

'Well?'

Aragorn blinked and licked his lips. 'Well what?'

"Haven't you been listening?' Legolas said as irritated as Gimli.

Aragorn looked at Gimli, hoping for a clue but the dwarf had stopped too and was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

Legolas gave an exaggerated sigh.

Aragorn decided that he was, after all, King and they needed to stop badgering him. And because thinking of Arwen had made him uncomfortable. 'Tonight I will sleep well because I will be thinking of Nana Gimli tucking me in and telling me a story,' he said crossly.

'No, you won't,' Legolas said but his eyes gleamed, humoured by Gimli's second outrage exclamation. 'You are already dreaming of Arwen.'

0o0o0

It was the doughty Beregond who questioned Maltök about the disappearance of his fellow guard. _'Again_ ,' as Beregond told Aragorn wearily for he had already done so.

'We have already asked Tyrises, who had to stay and do Ioralas' duty because Ioralas did not show. No one has seen Ioralas since that evening. They covered for him, so Maltök says and Tyrises agrees.' Beregond had shrugged and held out his hands in resignation. 'My lord, I do not know what more I can do. Ioralas has gone. There is no sign of him.'

Behind Aragorn, one of his councillors moved into his view. Robes that susurrused quietly, the colours dark and scholarly. Serious. discrete. Like the man himself. But the fabric was very fine and the crest of bear and rose worked by a very fine embroideress.

'My lord, perhaps you wish someone to fetch this other fellow, Tyrises?' It was the merchant, Bearos, for his name had smoothly changed as his insignia denoted and no longer would the higher born snigger behind their hands. Indeed, no one seemed to even remember his previous name, or where he was from or when he had arrived or even how he had become so rich. In such a short time, he had become one of the trusted men of Faramir and close enough to the King to stand and listen to this insignificant mystery of a missing guardsman.

Now he pressed a goblet of wine into Beregond's hand with quiet insistence. 'This must be very troubling for you, good sir,' he murmured to Beregond, who raised his eyes to the kindly face, nodding as if in a dream. 'One of your own abandoned his post.'

'It is indeed troubling, master Bearos,' said Beregond. 'It is indeed.'

Aragorn found himself nodding his head at Bearos' mild suggestion. 'No. I think we are finished here,' he said, thinking that his mouth did not feel like it belonged to him. 'Let him go,' he instructed Beregond. 'Do not let him take another watch in the Rath Dírnen though,' he said of Maltök. 'Clearly it has addled his wits.'

'I will see to him,' Bearos said and kindly pressed a hand against Beregond's shoulder. A ring flashed briefly in the light and Aragorn stared at it, frowning. But it was hard for a moment to sort through his thoughts and after a moment, he shook his head and agreed to all the suggestions that this investigation had gone as far as it could. Bearos was to arrange for Ioralas' abandoned mother to have a pension, Beregond to tell Arduin that he must cease this futile complaint and Aragorn was left only to tell Legolas and Gimli that the investigation was finished.

0o0o

And so that evening, unusually, Legolas and Gimli were summoned to the Palace and joined Aragorn in one of the large, rather uncomfortable council rooms.

Bearos had slipped away before the pair arrived. 'My lord Legolas does not like me,' he had said apologetically and though Aragorn had protested, he knew it was true. Legolas held himself more tightly on the few occasions that the two had been in the same room, as if he could not bear to brush against the Man even accidentally though Aragorn knew Bearos had defended Legolas and Elrohir against those who had a more traditional view of the Laws. Legolas' face was closed whenever Bearos had spoken a word of greeting, the elf's responses so dismissive as to be almost rude. So Aragorn did not demur when his councillor slipped away.

The chairs were hard, high for a dwarf; not that Gimli would ever show it, thought Aragorn, realising too late that he could not go elsewhere now without Gimli realising and resenting it. The walls facing Aragorn were mirrored; Faramir had told him that Denethor put them in so that he could see those who might betray him even though he had turned way. Now Aragorn could see his own face and thought that he looked paler, anxious, and frowned at himself. Legolas sat stiffly on the upright chair and Gimli, feet dangling slightly and chin too close to the table and certainly unable to stroke his beard comfortably, narrowed his eyes knowingly.

Aragorn asked Beregond to repeat to Legolas what he had found and Legolas listened with tight politeness until Beregond, a good Man and true, was dismissed by Aragorn and his guards with him.

Aragorn sighed and said again, 'Maltök knows nothing.'

Gimli puffed out his cheeks and glanced at Legolas, who glanced back and folded his arms over his chest. Gimli did likewise.

'Both men of the Tower Guard, Tyrises and Cendir, who were on duty that night agree that Ioralas never appeared,' Aragorn said, irritated by their apparent skeptism. 'Cendir had some reason for wanting to leave early and it seems that Maltök had agreed to relieve Cendir earlier. But Ioralas never showed up to relieve Tyrises and so he stayed with Maltök until the next watch. It seems Tyrises was annoyed by Ioralas not turning up and reported it the next day. This is confirmed by Beregond. And that seems to be it. There is not a single item belonging to Ioralas left in his quarters. He has gone.'

'Maltök? That is an Easterling name, is it not?' He narrowed his eyes. 'I would believe nothing that Man says.' Legolas shook his head.

But Aragorn pulled back, shaking his head. 'I will not persecute a man for his name, Legolas. And I am surprised at you for doing so.'

'It is not his name I mistrust. It is his manner, his…fear!' Legolas said insistently. 'If you had spoken with Arduin you would know that Ioralas has not abandoned everything.' Legolas spoke with certainty. 'They loved each other.'

'No.' Aragorn held Legolas' gaze then. 'It may be that Arduin loves Ioralas. You do not, in fact, know if those feelings were returned. Or if they were, whether Ioralas felt conflicted about them? If he was happy? He could have had feelings for someone else and gone with them. The evidence all says that he has certainly gone somewhere and suddenly.' He looked down the table at his friends. 'I fear we will never know the truth.' He sighed. It gave him no pleasure. He had begun to think perhaps, that Legolas was somehow seeing a fear for Elrohir and himself in this sad little tale of abandonment. 'It is finished, Legolas. I will not waste anymore time on this. And nor should you.'

Legolas rose with a stiff bow, and Gimli, who had been looking at first one, then the other, suddenly scrambled to his feet.

As Legolas turned he was reflected in the long mirrors on the walls and for a moment Aragorn thought he saw the elf's reflection tremble and something seemed to step back into the shadows. He tore his gaze away and quickly looked behind him where the curtains fluttered in a sudden wind. As if someone had stepped back into the shadows.

It must have been the wind, he told himself. It must have run a cold hand down the heavy silk.

o0o0

Legolas had no intention of obeying Aragorn's command. So he ignored it much the way he felt Aragorn had ignored him. He knew though that Aragon had greater cares and troubles than he, and so forgave him as easily, as he always had.

And anyway, after the months in the wild, with the Nazgûl on their tail and danger on all sides, the peace of the gardens and warmth of the home they had with the Fellowship did not really suit either Legolas or Gimli. But whilst Gimli was busy directing the engineering of the new gates, ordering the stone for the walls and so on, Legolas was bored.

Gimli strode beside him, stroking his beard and quiet whilst Legolas fretted.

'I simply cannot believe that a Man's life is worth so little in peace time that he can just disappear and no one question it!' he exclaimed.

'Ah Legolas. It is not the same with Men.' Gimli pulled his sleeve and forced him to stop. 'They multiply so quickly. And they live so briefly. One life is not the same to them as it is to us. No Khâzad would ever be allowed to just vanish either.'

Legolas sighed. 'It is more than that, Gimli. It just feels…strange. There is something that is just beyond my sight. Just beyond my grasp…We are missing more than just one regretful lover.'

It was evening and there were still a few traders and market sellers in the square, packing their wares into carts. A dog picked over something that had been dropped on the cobbles and a woman threw a bucket of water over the pavement so it ran over the cobbles and into the channels between, rushed away into drains that had been sunk into the stone. Gimli nodded approvingly at the engineering.

Legolas stared at the disappearing water, unseeing. 'I suppose I could call upon his mother.'

Gimli snorted. 'Yes. The King's elven companion just happens to drop in on his way home from the palace. If you intend to follow this further you will never find anything out blundering around without thinking it through.' The dwarf wagged his short, thick finger at Legolas.

Legolas said suspiciously, 'When have you solved mysteries and disappearances, oh great Huanrýn?'

Gimli looked smug. 'I was known for it in the Blue Mountains. I was highly sought as a Finder.' He followed Legolas down the narrow street that led to the house of the Fellowship.

'Finder of thimbles no doubt,' Legolas muttered.

But Gimli ignored him and strode after him, hands clasped behind his back, head high and chin up. 'It was in the winter of 3238,' he began in his best declaiming voice and Legolas gave a heavy sigh. 'There had been a cave-in in one of the Deeps and three dwarves lost. I was brought in after they had all but given up…' Gimli's voice took on a deeper cadence that signalled, in Legolas' view, that this was going to be a long story with Gimli ending up as hero. In Legolas' view it was not good for Gimli to reflect too much upon himself as hero; it made the dwarf reckless.

'What about talking to the guard who left early,' Legolas interrupted before Gimli really got started. 'He may have seen something.'

'Hm. Yes.' Gimli nodded. 'That is a good idea,' he conceded, and stood aside for a woman and her small child to pass. The woman cast a shy glance at first Gimli and then Legolas. Her eyes lingered upon the elf's fair face.

When they arrived at the house of the Fellowship, it was silent within and the hobbits' cloaks were gone.

'They will be at the Castle Inn,' Gimli observed for the nearby inn was a favourite with the hobbits, and a good hostelry.

'They will be dancing a jig and singing unsuitable songs,' Legolas confirmed. 'Pippin is a favourite of the patrons there.' He grinned.

Gimli grunted and threw his cloak over a cloak-stand and sat on a bench to pull off his boots. Then he stood his boots up carefully in the corner and pulled on some soft indoor shoes that the hobbits had had made for all of them and which they called slippers. They were comfortable and Gimli wiggled his toes inside them.

Legolas was already in the garden and had swung up onto the lowest branch of a sturdy apple tree that was loaded with small, hard apples not yet come to ripeness.

Gimli cracked his knuckles and settled onto a wide wooden bench beneath the tree and reached into his jerkin pocket for his pipe. 'You can go and see Ioralas' mother in the morning,' he said continuing his conversation. He filled his pipe, lit it and puffed. 'Don't raise her hopes but find out all you can about him, when did she last see him, what was his state of mind, any debts, any problems. Did she know about Arduin?'

'Oh? And what will you be doing, oh Huanrýn?' Legolas asked brightly. He suddenly hung down from the branch by his knees and his upside-down face grinned at Gimli. 'You are going to help me!'

Gimli smiled and blew a plume of beautiful smoke at the elf. 'I cannot leave you to blunder about on your own. But you will do as I say. _I_ will find that guard who left early and _I_ will interrogate him. He will speak to me. I have a way that makes 'em talk. And the other thing…' Gimli leaned back against the tree trunk and laced his fingers together over his belly. 'We need to find out if those two guards, Maltök and the other one, have any debts or anything about them that might make them easily bribed. Or if they seem to have any more money than usual.'

Legolas had righted himself so he sat upon the branch but dangled his feet just above Gimli's head. Gimli looked at them speculatively.

0o0o


	17. Chapter 17 Gimli the Finder

Huánryn- Sindarin for hunting hound- Legolas called Gimli this in the last chapter. I forgot to add a translation.

 **Chapter 17: Gimli the Finder**

'Gandalf has been squirrelled away in the libraries and vaults of this city for days,' Pippin said with faint disgust. He sat on the bench at the long dining table and swung his feet. 'What on earth he is doing down there I cannot think.'

Gimli had to agree. He had shared a smoke with Gandalf two days ago but seen nothing of the Wizard since. He wondered what Gandalf was looking for. But he and Legolas had other matters to attend. Today the two of them would investigate this missing guardsman. It was good for Legolas to have something to do, he thought for Gimli himself was enjoying engineering the city's new defences.

Behind him and standing at the great range in the kitchen, Legolas was cooking Second Breakfast, and a great pan sizzled with sausages and bacon and another pan was ready for eggs. Taking six eggs, Legolas broke three in each hand at the same time and then rapidly broke another six the same way. Gimli rolled his eyes as Sam, who was helping Legolas, gasped in admiration.

Frodo was returning from the garden with handfuls of plums which he rinsed quickly in cold water and put in a bowl on the table. Sam carefully poured milk from the urn into an earthenware jug. Gimli watched him surreptitiously, for Sam's hands sometimes shook a little still.

'He brought some old scrolls back with him,' volunteered Pippin, as Gimli filled the toast rack with thick slices of hot toast. There was a dish of freshly churned yellow butter and a jar of thick-cut marmalade. 'I saw them under his arm when he came back yesterday evening,' Pippin finished.

'What are we talking about?' asked Frodo, sitting beside Pippin. Merry sat opposite and helped himself to the toast.

'Gandalf,' supplied Pippin. 'And what has he been looking for in the libraries.'

'It's probably maps,' said Legolas. He threw a cloth over his shoulder whilst he shook the pan so it sizzled and spat. 'Gandalf always wants maps when he comes to the Wood.'

'Bilbo loves maps,' Sam said, smiling as he set the earthenware milk jug upon the table.

'I remember,' Legolas said, 'Bilbo sent my father a map of The Shire.' He began piling the cooked sausages onto a plate and handed them to Merry. 'My father was tremendously pleased with it. It hangs over his fireplace. And he sent one back to Bilbo, of the journey from Doriath. An original. Very precious.'

Merry and Pippin mouthed 'Doriath?' at each other, puzzled and shrugged. Instead tucking into the pile of sausages.

'We should give Aragorn a map of The Shire as a wedding gift!' Sam said suddenly and there was general applause and approval.

Gimli nodded approvingly and took the eggs from Legolas and put them on the table. It was a good idea, he thought and wondered if Aragorn would also like one of their own journey from Rivendell to Mordor and back.

He watched Legolas help first Sam, then Frodo and then himself to a hobbit size portion of bacon, eggs, sausages, fried potatoes, mushrooms and tomatoes. Pippin added another sausage to the mound of food on his plate and Legolas also added another sausage to his plate.

Over the almost empty plate of sausages, Pippin shot Legolas a challenging look to which the elf responded with narrowed eyes. Pippin now had four sausages on his plate and Legolas had five. Gimli regarded them both warily while Merry's eyes danced with glee. Pippin picked up another sausage, holding it provocatively in front of him for a moment before he ate it as fast as he could.

'No…' Gimli began but it was useless. Legolas was now wolfing down as much food as he could fit into his mouth and Pippin sitting opposite, was trying to match him bite for bite.

'Frodo, _you_ must know what Gandalf is looking for?' Merry said, slapping down a coin on the table next to Legolas.

'This is so undignified,' Gimli protested weakly but he matched Merry's coin nonetheless but placed it beside Pippin who flashed him a grin. Legolas looked at him hurt and then redoubled his efforts, managing to chomp his way through sausage after sausage without a breath.

'He is looking for information about Khand I think. Someone he once knew went that way,' Frodo said laughing at Pippin who could not fit anything else in his mouth. Then he said with a mischievous grin that delighted Gimli, 'Oh, and I think he may need your help, Legolas. It is to do with a tree.'

'A tree?' said Legolas with his mouth full but he had no choice but to pause for breath and swallow in order to answer Frodo. 'Well. Trees I know.'

'Well, you can't do it today, Legolas,' Gimli said quickly and deliberately put Legolas off his stride. Legolas looked up and so missed the last sausage and instead Pippin crammed into his mouth triumphantly.

The hobbit held up seven fingers and waggled them in victory.

Merry grinned. 'Pippin won that one, Legolas.'

'Face of an angel, manners of an Orc,' muttered Gimli, not for the first time. 'Has Elrohir ever seen you eat? Don't answer that,' he said quickly for the wicked gleam in the elf's eyes.

Legolas bowed graciously to Pippin, and chewed more slowly now there was nothing to be gained. He swallowed. 'Gimli is right,' he said at last. 'I have to see someone about something.'

'Someone about something?' asked Merry curiously. 'Well that sounds vague.'

'Something for Aragorn,' Gimli said quickly before Legolas could blab it all out and get the hobbits involved. Because they would want to 'help' and then Aragorn would not be pleased. Nor would Gandalf.

'Then it must be important,' insisted Merry.

'Sort of,' said Gimli quickly. And successfully evading the hobbits' curiosity, he told himself, nodding approvingly.

'Sort of important?' It was Pippin now asking questions. His eyes bright and wide.

'Yes. It's something for Aragorn,' Gimli said more firmly. He prodded Legolas. 'Come on, Laddie. Finish that and come on. We haven't got all day. We have fish to catch.'

'Oh? You're going fishing!' cried Pippin happily. 'I cannot think of a better way to spend a lovely day like this than fishing. I'll get my hat.'

Legolas looked confused. 'Fishing?' he asked Gimli. 'I thought we were invest …'

Gimli rolled his eyes. 'Catching things,' he said quickly. 'Not really fishing. More like rat-catching.'

Merry narrowed his eyes at the dwarf. 'I think Aragorn must have better qualified rat-catchers than you two.' He fixed them with a knowing look. 'What sort of rats? Furry ones or two-legged ones?'

Gimli had no intention of telling the hobbits anything so instead of answering Merry, he turned to Pippin. ' I am not actually fishing but I would like an introduction to your good friend, Beregond, Pippin, if I could impose upon you.'

'Of course!' cried Pippin, delighted for an excuse. 'And if Aragorn comes looking, Merry can tell him that you and Legolas are rat-catching on his behalf.'

Gimli was appalled. 'If Aragorn comes, do not tell him we are rat-catching for him. He is very busy and will only worry.'

The hobbits exchanged quick, knowing smiles and Frodo said innocently, 'Well Sam and I are going to visit Faramir. We have not seen him properly since we arrived in the city. But it does rather leave Merry at a loose end,' he added with a glint of mischief.

'Exactly,' said Merry with a shrewd look. 'And if you are going to see Beregond with Pippin, Gimli, I shall go with Legolas!' He turned to Legolas. 'Where are we going, Legolas?'

'To see the mother of a friend, someone who was in Minas Morgul with us.' He looked at Gimli with an amused smile on his lips. 'I will tell you on the way.'

'An excellent idea!' exclaimed Frodo. 'Perhaps Sam and I should come with you after all?'

0o0o

In the end, Gimli managed to persuade a laughing Frodo that he should stick to his plans and not disappoint Faramir so at least it was only Pippin and Merry who were dragged into the adventure and not the Ringbearers. He tapped out an anxious little prayer to Mahal that Aragorn and Gandalf would not find out but he felt no answering peace in his heart.

Beregond was delighted to see Pippin and excited to meet Gimli, of whom he had heard so much. He welcomed them into his office, a small room in the Tower of the Guard, but comfortable and businesslike, with a desk covered in rosters and scrolls, reports, and four wooden chairs that were comfortably wide and the arms at just the right height. Against the walls in beautifully wrought iron racks were the banners of the Guard. The room smelled of leather and faintly of horses. Strangely homely.

'Master Peregrine has told me many fine tales of your deeds, Master Gimli,' said Beregond with a wide smile he could not keep off his face. 'Bergil will be so chuffed that I have actually met you.' He looked past Gimli for a moment. 'I don't suppose the lord Legolas is with you too? I heard you were inseparable and I will be the envy of all my neighbours if I have met him too.'

Pippin stifled a laugh and Gimli tried to be gracious and smoothed his beard. Patience of a mountain, he reminded himself. Patience of stone.

'I promise I will bring him the next time I visit,' he said generously.

So they sat in the wooden chairs and the sun fell through a wide window and warmed the air, and they talked for a while until Gimli skilfully manoeuvred the conversation around to the real reason for his visit.

'It is strange,' he said slowly as if it were merely occurring to him now, 'that this guardsman seems to have disappeared with none any the wiser.' He shook his head sadly. 'We come through a war such as we have and still trouble happens.' He offered his pouch of pipeweed to Beregond, who looked startled and shook his head. But Pippin was happy to dig in and soon both he and Gimli were wreathed in thin streams of smoke.

'It is strange,' Beregond agreed. 'He was such a happy soul. And a very good soldier. Never missed a duty, never missed a call.' He sighed. 'But sometimes war, battle, is easy and it's the peace that follows that is hard.'

Gimli looked down at the wooden floor of the man's office. 'Yes,' he said slowly. 'That is very true.' He drew on his pipe. 'You have long been besieged,' he began.

He drew more from Beregond than he thought he would and Pippin's company was significant for the hobbit would ask another question when Gimli paused and Beregond trusted Pippin for what they had shared in the battle for Minas Tirith.

By the time they left, they knew quite a lot about all three of the guards who had, or had not, been in the Silent Street that night. But more, they had permission from Beregond to speak to the fourth guard, Cendir, to whom no one had yet spoken.

Even more, Beregond sent a message summoning the Man although Beregond himself had to leave. He had duties that could not be delayed, but he extracted again a promise from Gimli to bring Legolas next time he came calling. Pippin went with Beregond and Gimli was thankful; he thought they would be in trouble enough when they were discovered without the hobbits being dragged into this even further.

The Man, Cendir, seemed at ease and an honest sort when he entered Beregond's office. He was tall and strong with an open and honest face. He looked Gimli in the eye without seeming defiant or challenging.

'I know Ioralas well, my lord,' he said when asked. 'And I confess I am as bemused as anyone that he did not attend his duty.' He shrugged and spread his hands. 'If anything, he was more dutiful. He did not like anything… untoward happening and would have reported anything he felt was not quite…right.'

Gimli did not lean forwards as he wanted to and wring the answers from the Man. Instead he merely tapped out his pipe and cleaned it. 'Strange, as you say. With a character like that, to have just upped and left with never a by your leave.'

There was a pause which Gimli did not attempt to fill. Sure enough, Cendir pulled his ear uncomfortably and he seemed to turn inward as if fighting a great inner battle.

At last he said, 'Do I have your word, my lord, that none of this shall be passed as coming from me?'

'Aye,' Gimli lit his pipe and puffed as if he had all the time in the world. 'You have. None but you and me shall know what is spoke here today. The word of a dwarf is as stone; none shall speak it.'

Cendir took a breath and shifted forwards, he leaned towards Gimli. 'My lord, please understand. There is nothing treacherous in this. But there is a certain…sense of obligation shall we say, amongst some of the older families, those who were loyal to the Steward and who served with him the many decades we have been under siege from Mordor.' He paused as if remembering that Gimli was close the king but Gimli did not react. Instead he puffed on his pipe soberly. He had found that leaving long pauses and saying little encouraged people to say more than they intended…as now.

'Hm,' was all the dwarf said and Cendir breathed and then looked up and said, 'A few of the older ones have wanted to pay their respects to Denethor and there is no harm in it.'

Gimli leaned back satisfied. Legolas would be hopping mad that it had been Gimli who discovered this juicy bit of news. 'Well now,' he said speculating. 'I imagine that they fear the king will hold this against them and therefore they are prepared to pay handsomely to see the tomb of Denethor…' His pipe had gone out whilst he gloated upon his find and he struck a match and held it to his pipe. 'This has made some of the men rich?' he asked shrewdly. 'But Ioralas did not approve.'

'Not rich. But those that do comply have made a little money from the Pilgrimage, my lord.'

'Pilgrimage?' He kept the alarm out of his voice with an effort but thought how Aragorn might be crowned but he was not yet truly King. And with an elven bride on the way rather than one of these noble families, or a Rohirrim princess, it might add to the legend but would not endear him to his nobility.

Cendir swallowed. 'Yes, my lord. This is what they are calling these visits.'

Gimli nodded sagely, calmly. 'I understand,' he said quietly. 'These men have served with Denethor, and his father before that. Many decades. This city,' he said slowly and reached out to stroke the solid stone of the wall. 'This city has withstood the siege of Sauron's forces for long years. And the Stewards have served the people well.' He nodded. 'I understand why they would wish to respect Denethor.'

Cendir's shoulders almost sagged with relief and Gimli thought it was not only the old families who thought perhaps, that Denethor should be given more respect.

'Thank you, my lord. They say that you understand the minds of Men, and that you sing to the city's stones so they will lift up and build themselves high and tall, and stand forever against our enemies.'

Gimli was startled. He stroked his beard. 'Do they indeed?' He laughed, faintly embarrassed but pleased nonetheless. 'Well I cannot raise stone up on my own, but I do understand its ways, and its song.' He paused for a moment and then prompted softly, 'But Ioralas did not think this pilgrimage should be happening?'

Cendir seemed to have lost all fear now and shifted forwards confidingly. 'No. He did not approve.' Cendir sighed. 'He did not say anything though and never threatened to give them away. He just didn't like it.' He paused, thinking for a long time. Gimli said nothing; just let him think. 'When Ioralas disappeared, I questioned Maltök, and Tyrises. I confess I did wonder if he had threatened to give them up but they swear he did not speak of it.' He paused and shook his head slightly. 'It is so unlike Ioralas to not turn up, and if ever he is detained for any reason, he always makes a lengthy apology! He is known for it. I cannot believe he simply left without word. '

Gimli chewed the end of his pipe and let a long, thin stream of smoke spiral up into the air. He thought for a moment and then said delicately, 'And do you know his friend, Arduin?'

Cendir looked up and for a moment, his face was conflicted. 'Yes,' he said eventually. He glanced up at Gimli. 'Such things are not spoken of.'

Gimli nodded kindly. 'Yes. I have heard. And yet they happen in times of war when men think they are lost.' He watched Cendir's face carefully but he saw no trace of either sympathy or loathing. ' Do you think that Ioralas would have left without speaking to Arduin?' he asked gently.

Cendir did not hesitate. 'No. Those two were close. They might have left together but not apart.'

Gimli nodded. It was what he had needed. 'Thank you my friend. None will know what you have said and none will know that you have spoken with me. Before you leave, tell me something of yourself. Are you from the city itself or beyond?'

Cendir was from Pelargir and Gimli extracted information from him about the soil and rocks as carefully as if he mined it. After a little while he nodded and smiled. 'When you leave, anyone asks you what we spoke of, you can say in truth that I asked you about the nature of the soil and stone of your home. We need granite for building the walls, and finer marble and basalt for the palaces and great houses destroyed. Pelargir will provide some of that.' He pressed a silver coin into the Man's hand and nodded away his profuse thanks, thinking he needed to warn Aragorn of his people's need. After Erebor, the people had wealth beyond their dreams for they had recovered their lost gold- but this was more like Azanulbizar, when finally they had defeated Azog but at such a cost in both lives and wealth that it took long to recover. The people of the city were poor, and some hungry, bereaved and lost the hands that had kept them fed. And there was an old loyalty to Boromir's House that Gimli understood. Aragorn would need to tread softly here.

0o0o

Pippin was waiting for him, sitting on the crumbled wall of the guard house and swinging his feet. Beregond had long gone. The hobbit was whistling tunelessly and waved when he saw Gimli and jumped down, sticking his hands into his pockets.

'Hullo Gimli,' he said and fell into step with the dwarf. 'Have you finished your chat with Cendir then?'

'I have indeed, thank you, Pippin. Your introduction was most helpful.'

'So…Ioralas? What has happened and why are you looking for him? Is he your fish or your rat? Or is Cendir your fish-rat? And why is it important-ish for Aragorn but he mustn't know you are rat-catching for him?' Pippin looked up at Gimli with wide eyes but the gleam in them was far too like Legolas for Gimli's liking. 'You can tell me, Gimli. I am completely water-tight!'

Gimli snorted.

'Well I suppose it is to do with this missing guardsman that you asked Beregond about.' Pippin stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered along beside Gimli. 'Although he told me that he does not think that this chap has just upped and left and is bothered by it more some days than others.' Pippin cocked his head like an inquisitive robin, his eyes bright. 'Why is that, do you think?' But he went on without a pause. 'He says they are all part of a special patrol that look after the Tombs of the Stewards and I suppose that means they are guarding Denethor's tomb. Either against desecration or against what could be called, loyalists I suppose.' He gave Gimli a look and said with barely feigned innocence, 'I suppose I could always ask Aragorn to explain.'

Gimli found the ends of his beard were in his mouth and took them out quickly before anyone noticed the indignity. 'Aragorn does not need to know,' he said, hearing his own voice sound faint and anxious. Hardly the voice of a Master of Stone and Iron! 'He is much too busy,' he added. But the hobbit's words struck a chord with Gimli and he realised that in fact, Pippin had indeed worked out the facts pretty well in a very short space of time. Perhaps now was the time to involve the hobbits after all.

'Very well,' he admitted. 'You have it. There are those who make what they are calling a 'pilgrimage' to Denethor's tomb and pay for it. Ioralas did not like this but does not seem to have made any official complaint.'

'No,' agreed Pippin. 'Beregond has only just discovered this himself. And will put a stop to it now.' Gimli glanced at the hobbit, secretly impressed. 'The two, Maltök and Tyresis, have been moved off this duty now,' Pippin continued, 'and Tyresis made a big fuss, made a lot of threats to Beregond. Said he had friends in high places who could make Beregond's position difficult. But since Beregond is going to leave for Ithilien with Faramir when he goes, Beregond is not in the least worried.'

Gimli walked slowly, thinking. 'Who is this person that Tyresis knows in high places?' he wondered aloud. 'Or persons?'

'It could be that those who have been to Denethor's tomb are powerful,' Pippin said as they turned into their own street. 'There is that lord Heredir we met at the coronation. He was quite dismissive about Aragorn's time spent as a Ranger. And he won't be the only one. Merry says that Faramir is always being visited by old families who want to tell him how sorry they are that Denethor is dead.'

Gimli slowed almost to a stop. They had reached a wide square that was bustling with market stalls and housewives with wide baskets on their arms. There was a cheerful and optimistic air and minstrels were wandering about the market and taking coin for songs. This was the time of peace, thought Gimli. But a precious and fragile peace. The people had their King. They had peace. But that did not mean prosperity. Times were hard still and old families might wonder if their power, influence, or wealth was safe. 'We need to tell Aragorn,' he said at last.

'Yes,' said Pippin. 'Or at least tell Faramir. He seems to always know exactly what to do. Now,' Pippin said with a bright smile. 'Aren't you glad that Merry and I came along with you and Legolas. You would never have got all that without me, and Merry is completely the right person to have sent with Legolas. Although Sam would have been even better. He would have made the old lady a cup of tea and asked about her garden, got her talking and then she would have told him everything. But Merry is quite good too.' I tell you what!' he said brightly, 'why don't we drop in on them on the way home? See how they are getting on.'

'No,' Gimli said firmly, remembering what he had said to Legolas when he had the same idea and not for the first time, thought that Pippin and Legolas were, in fact, very alike. And not always in a good way. 'I trust Legolas to have a chat with an old lady about her missing son. He has proved himself over and over on this quest.'

'Yes! Against orcs and goblins. I would not want anyone else at my back,' said Pippin. 'But not to tackle a little old lady in a cottage with lace curtains and doilies and things. He doesn't really understand tea cups and doilies.'

'Um,' said Gimli indecisively. 'You might have a point.'

0o0o

tbc


	18. Chapter 18 A Lucky Meeting

**Thank you to Anarithilen for beta'ing this.**

 **Also to my dear freddie, Nelyafeanorian, Nako and Kymahalei (It is SO nice to hear from you again, my friend) and an unknown 'guest' who has started reading this and kindly left a review. I always reply to reviews so please do login and say hello. It's always nice to be able to thank readers for saying what they liked.**

 **Chapter 18: A Lucky Meeting.**

Merry lengthened his strides so he did not have to trot alongside Legolas as they made their way to the fourth level where Arduin had told Legolas that Ioralas' mother lived. The fourth level was a bustling, lively place for it was market day. They had to stand aside for the trundling carts filled with goods from Pelargir and Lebinnin, even goods that came up the coast from Khand and Far Harad for now that it was safe, the farmers and merchants came back to the city to trade.

The smells of the market mingled richly for there was fresh bread, and vegetables were piled up on the little stalls, although they were carrots, cabbages and turnips rather than soft fruits and salads. Merry stopped to stare at the strange spices from the far lands. A dark-skinned Man stood hopefully as Merry perused the glass jars filled with different coloured powders of amber, ginger and fine white powder and small black dried seeds. There were little sticks that smelled soft and sweet and strange star-shaped seed heads in earthenware bowls. But he shook his head when the Man approached.

'Maybe later,' he said. He heard Legolas laugh softly. 'We should bring Sam here. He'd love it.'

'Maybe tomorrow,' Legolas agreed although Merry could hear his heart was not in it at all. But Merry enjoyed the bustle and vibrancy, the push of people and the rich smells of meat, ripe vegetables, fruit, and people.

A dog scavenged happily in the gutter. Narrow alleyways wound away down through the levels, washing strung above from the iron wrought balconies, blowing in the fresh wind.

Merry was suddenly moved, for only weeks ago, this city had faced devastation, invasion from orcs and goblins and trolls that would have eaten their flesh and killed every living soul in the city.

Then he heard Legolas singing under his breath and felt his spirits lift. Perhaps it was the sun coming out because it seemed to Merry that the people around him softened and smiled too and nodded and murmured greetings to him. But he knew that Legolas' singing could lift the spirits too for many times the Elf had done so on the quest.

'Where does she live?' Merry asked Legolas as they pushed past two women haggling with the butcher over a skinny rabbit that hung amongst the partridges on his stall. It seemed the butcher's stall was still poorly stocked for the farmlands of the Pelennor Fields still lay fallow in the devastation of war and the cattle had been slaughtered or driven off.

'Arduin did not say and I did not think to ask,' said Legolas looking about himself. 'Surely one of these folk will know,' he said confidently. He looked about for a friendly face but Merry saw that many eyes were wide and either looked too awed or slipped away shyly when the elf's clear gaze alit upon them. Legolas was simply too overwhelming for the ordinary folk, Merry realised, his tall elegance and grace, his sculpted and lovely face, was just too intimidating. It would be up to Merry to resolve this.

'Good thing you've got me, Legolas,' he said cheerfully. A stall keeper, standing behind his stall packed with rolls of brightly coloured silks and satins, ribbons and braid, met Merry's eye almost immediately.

'Come along, Legolas,' said Merry. 'I will ask that trader over there.'

But even as he hurried towards the Man, an old woman almost bumped into him and dropped her basket right in front of him. They both bent down at the same time to retrieve the cabbage and turnips that rolled away and Legolas caught her basket agilely before she spilled everything else.

'Oh thank you, sirs,' she said gratefully and then stared, and ducked her head. 'You must be the companions of the King, sirs,' she said quickly and then paused. 'We have all heard of you. And thank you for what you did for our city.' She had sharp blue eyes, Merry noticed, and her gaze darted hither and thither as if she were afraid.

'It is no more than many of your own folk, mistress,' said Legolas gallantly. 'We are looking for someone. I served with a guardsman of the Tower, Ioralas,' he said. A small space had cleared around the three of them, Merry noticed; he assumed it was to do with Legolas for the townsfolk stared at the tall elf with wonder in their faces, but they stared at Merry too and many of them bobbed their heads in greeting, awe turning to smiles.

'Why are you looking for him, my lords?' the woman asked in distress. 'He is my son and been missing for some days.'

Merry shot a look at Legolas but the elf's eyes were trained on the woman. He bowed courteously and said, 'It is you we seek in truth, mistress. I wish to help you find him.'

'So isn't it lucky that we bumped into you!' Merry exclaimed and took her basket. 'Literally.'

'That you did, sir!' the woman smiled. She glanced around quickly as if looking for someone. 'Come, my lords. My home is this way. It is safer to talk there.'

Legolas carried her basket, which hardly had anything in it, Merry noted. Merry walked ahead, with the old woman leaning on his arm heavily. More heavily than he expected in truth. She was bent-backed, her hair bundled beneath a cap. She turned her head to check that Legolas too was following. They had to ease past a cart that stood outside the tavern as two men unloaded the barrels and carried them, grunting, into the tavern. A beery smell washed from the swinging open door of the tavern as they passed and the horse turned its head towards them curiously. Legolas stroked its soft nose as he passed.

The woman turned down another narrower alley, quieter and there was no washing strung across the balconies of this one. It seemed to have been damaged more by the siege for the roofs of some of the houses had caved in and there was still debris in the ally. One house was half demolished and its windows were all missing. A small, skinny cat watched them for a moment and then it meowed hopefully and came towards them, rubbing itself on Legolas' boots. He stopped for a moment as if thinking, then stroked it and followed Merry. The cat watched as they walked through the alley and then sat carefully on the sun-warmed stone, as if waiting.

They followed the old woman through a low stone arch into a small, rundown courtyard. Three houses faced each other with the archway on the fourth side. A couple of women were hanging washing up over low lines of ropes strung from one side of the courtyard to another. They glanced up at the newcomers but dropped their eyes quickly. Merry thought they had the look of the old woman about them and wondered if they were her sisters.

'In here, good sirs,' said Ioralas' mother. 'Forgive the squalor but 'tis all I can afford.'

Inside, the floors were bare stone and Merry noted that there was only a well-scrubbed table and three wooden chairs. Heavy pots stood on an iron range against one wall. It was dark, the windows dirty. 'I have not had time to clear up from the War,' she said faintly apologetic.

Merry pulled out a chair and swiped dust from it, holding the chair for the woman as she gathered her skirts and sat down. Legolas stood, arms crossed over his chest, and leaned beside the door as if he were poised to fly from the place at any moment. Merry noticed he had his bow strung. He did not speak and so it was up to Merry to lead the conversation.

Ioralas' mother quickly confided in Merry; she was called Beirewen, she said, and she had hailed from Ithilien once. She glanced about, ashamed of the humble lodgings. 'We were saving for a farm,' she said. 'We were going to leave and buy a little place somewhere.' She got to her feet and took down an earthenware jar from a high shelf and she opened it. 'See, my lords,' she said and showed them the open jar. Within gleamed coins, brass and silver. A few glints of gold. 'There is enough here for us to buy a small place and some pigs, a couple of cows. Enough to get started.'

Her eyes filled with tears and she dabbed at them with the edge of her apron. 'Ah, my lords. Forgive me _._ My sweet boy is lost, gone they say and I cannot believe he would go with never so much as a word. He would not have left me behind.' She covered her face in her hands then and her shoulders shook.

Appalled, Merry looked at Legolas but the elf's face was impassive. 'Please, do not distress yourself, Mistress Beirewen,' said Merry awkwardly. 'Legolas has been making enquiries. He will find Ioralas for you.'

'It is good of you my lords,' the woman, Beirewen, sobbed. 'But I do not believe you will find him. I think he is …d…dead.'

Merry could think of nothing to say; he was beginning to believe the same. According to Legolas, there had been no sign of Ioralas and it was many days now since Arduin had told Legolas that Ioralas was missing.

'I think of my poor sweet boy,' she moaned. 'He is lying somewhere in a ditch. Oh, I cannot bear it!'

She moaned again, and rocked herself from side to side.

At last Merry managed to comfort her and she ceased her weeping. 'We will send word, Mistress Beirewen, when we have news.' Merry patted her hand kindly.

'I am going, my lords. I will not be here for I have no money and no means to pay for myself. I must throw myself upon the charity of my sister in Ithilien before I starve.'

Merry glanced at Legolas but the elf made no move and so, faintly surprised and even a little irritated, Merry reached into his pocket and drew out two silver coins. 'Please, take these. I hope we have news for you before you leave.'

Suddenly Legolas spoke, quietly. 'Why do you think he is dead, mistress? Could he not have simply left without you?'

The old woman shot a look at Legolas. 'He would not have just gone and left his poor old mother without word,' she said.

'And he would have told Arduin too, surely?' Legolas asked. He tilted his head slightly as if listening for something that Merry could not hear.

The old woman closed her eyes briefly as if she smelt something unpleasant. 'I do not know….I should not speak of this, lords…I admit, for a while…there was something between them.' She swallowed and glanced at them to ascertain their shock and when she saw nothing, she continued, 'but Ioralas, well he wanted t …to stop. He thought he might settle down, marry, have children. But Arduin would not give up.'

'He pestered your son?' Legolas asked softly and Merry glanced at him; this was not the Man that Legolas had described as they had left their house this morning. 'How strange. I thought they were close.' His voice was low, wondering and Merry frowned. Legolas must have got it wrong- but that was not like Legolas. 'Well, I am sorry for it then,' the elf said and smiled sadly. 'Do you think we should still search for your son?'

She hesitated and then reached for Merry's hand. 'Yes,' she said. 'I would know what happened to him, that he had peace. And I would know who killed him.'

'And where will we find you?' Legolas asked softly. 'How will we reach you if you are going to Ithilien?'

'Leave a message in the tavern we passed. They will find me.

Legolas inclined his head in agreement and there seemed little else to say.

When they left, it was dark for the weather had come in from the sea and heavy clouds bowled over the Pelennor Fields. The washer women had gone, their laundry with them. The street traders seemed to have packed away their stalls and goods for there was silence down the narrow alleyway towards the square and shadows clustered in the corners of the empty street.

Merry strode alongside Legolas thoughtfully. Just before they left the alleyway, Merry turned his head to look back. A yellow light shone from the dirty window of the old woman's house. One candle, thought Merry. It was a moment before Merry realised that there were no other lights in any windows of any of the houses roundabout. These houses, this street, was quite deserted. Briefly a shadow passed between the window and the candle and Merry thought it must be Ioralas' mother moving around her kitchen. And then the light was snuffed out.

'I have to say, Legolas,' Merry said. 'I do not think that you were your usual charming self to Mistress Beirewen. It's a good thing you brought me along.'

Legolas paused for a moment and then looked back the way they had come. 'Do you not think it strange,' he said quietly, 'that we found her so easily? Or should I say, she found us…As if she had been waiting for us?' He turned back towards the market square and its bustle, taking long strides. 'And did you notice how everything was unswept, grit on the floor, dust on the chairs as if no one had sat on them for a long time? And yet the table was scrubbed. The earthenware jar was clean. A window was cracked and you would think her son would have repaired it, even if he disappeared days ago, for that window had been broken a long time.' He paused and then turned back to face the wide-eyed hobbit. 'She wants us to think Ioralas is dead. And she wants us to look for him.'

Merry became aware that Legolas was walking more quickly, taking long strides so that Merry had to trot to keep up. It was unusual for the elf to be so oblivious to the hobbits and Merry reached up to pluck at his sleeve when suddenly Legolas ducked into a narrow alley and pulled Merry quickly after him. He shoved Merry into an empty doorway.

'Hush,' he said and Merry, used to the Wilds and doing whatever Legolas or Aragon said, immediately froze. They remained there for a little while and Merry was just about to sigh and shift and say 'Well then,' when a cloaked and shadowy figure skulked past the alley entrance. It turned its head towards them and Merry shrank back into the shadows. It paused for a moment, raising its head slightly as if sniffing the air, and then, after a moment, passed on.

Merry was frozen where he stood. He felt the hair on his scalp prickle and barely breathed. Only when he felt Legolas' warmth shift beside him did he move himself.

Merry turned his face towards Legolas. 'What was that?' he whispered in horror. 'It reminded me of…' But he did not want to say what it reminded him of. Nor did he need to for Legolas nodded.

'Yes. Me too.' The elf looked upwards. 'Let us return to the Gate by a different route, Merry. I suddenly do not wish to be on these empty and ruined streets so far from our friends.'

'Nor do I,' Merry said.

Like a cat, Legolas leapt up and clambered onto the wall of a garden. He knelt on one knee and reached down to Merry, pulling him up quickly behind him. Balancing carefully, Merry edged along the narrow wall, trying hard not to look down into the courtyard below and Legolas pulled him up onto a narrow balcony first and then up onto a neighbouring roof.

They let themselves down into one small empty garden after another, then climbed into a courtyard. 'The Gates are just through the next square,' said Legolas quietly. 'We have to go through them to get home.' He peered over the courtyard wall, then smiled. 'We are safe here I think.' He cupped his hands and gave Merry a leg-up over the wall and then leapt up beside him, letting Merry down the other side into a square that had a running fountain, water plashing softly beneath a wide, green plane tree.

A man was sitting in a chair smoking a pipe, a dog lying at his feet. He looked up in astonishment as first a hobbit and then an elf climbed over a wall and let themselves down into the square. Merry nodded politely and the man nodded back. He did not move but watched as they brushed themselves off and walked lightly down the street and through a low stone arch that led to the Gate to the Second Level. There were people clustering about the gates and looking up at the sky anxiously, for the sky was dark and stormy.

'I am glad we are almost home, Legolas,' said Merry. 'I suddenly do not want to be out here after dark. And it is crowded enough here, don't you think, Legolas, that one man, if man it was, cannot hurt us.'

'Indeed. Let us not speak of it until we are safe and home, Merry.'

By now, the clouds had gathered heavily and low over the city and the sun had disappeared. Legolas looked up anxiously. 'There is going to be a storm,' he said.

Doors were closing hurriedly, stalls and shops slammed shut. Soon the streets were emptying and Legolas hurried Merry along. 'Come along Merry, let us go as fast as we may,' Legolas said anxiously. He glanced behind him. 'Those clouds have a look of malevolence and cruel deeds are done in darkness.' And it was like the Wild again, with Legolas behind him, looking back and ahead, hand on the knife at his belt and in the other, he carried his bow.

At last the house of the Fellowship was before them and Merry could see a cheerful yellow light bobbing about inside and Sam's voice calling out and Pippin's answer.

'Gimli and Pippin are home,' Merry said with relief as the garden gate clanged shut behind them and Legolas threw open the door.

'Good,' said the elf. 'Right. You tell Gimli what happened, Merry. Tell him I think Ioralas is dead and that someone wants us to find him. Tell him that he and Pippin and you must stay here so I know where you all are.'

Merry turned an astonished face up to Legolas. 'But where are you going?' Merry cried.

'I'm going to find what has been following us, and why.' Legolas' face was determined and fierce.

'At least let me come with you,' Merry protested.

'You cannot follow where I am going,' Legolas said grimly and he clasped Merry's shoulder. 'You will only slow me down I fear, Merry.

'Oh, I don't like the sound of that and I don't think Gimli will either.'

'I know he won't,' Legolas replied. 'Which is why you, Merry, have to keep them all here. And tell Gandalf when you see him what has been happening.'

He gently shoved Merry inside the door and gave the hobbit a tight little smile. Then the elf ran his hands swiftly over his knives and before Merry could say anything else, he had leapt up onto the wall, then the balcony and ran lightly along the roof of the house next to them.

'Legolas! Merry! Is that you?' Frodo called and appeared in the doorway. His face was drawn and anxious and Merry immediately hurried over in concern. 'I am glad to see you, Merry. A storm is coming and the best place to be is indoors by the fire with tea and toast. But where is Legolas?'

'Oh he is probably going to sit outside in some tall dangerous tree singing to the wind,' Gimli's voice rumbled from inside the parlour.

Merry gulped. 'Something like that.'

0o0o

A small campfire flickered between the trees beside the Entwade. Thin birches and alders clustered along the narrow streams that fed into the river. Elladan sat and watched whilst Elrohir slept. The two black horses stood like basalt statues, one hoof resting and heads low for they had ridden long and rested now. Elladan threw a couple of sticks into the fire and listened to the sounds of the night.

Elrohir was still and silent. Sound asleep, thought Elladan. He sighed. So much had happened since last they travelled this way along the Entwash; then it had been to find Aragorn and Halbarad rode with them.

Halbarad. Cold and dead. Like so many others he had known. With no awakening in Námo's halls. The fate of Men awaited Aragorn and his heart grieved that every day brought that closer.

And now Arwen too was to make her Choice to take the Fate of Men and so walk with Aragorn in whatever land Death took Men's souls.

And he, Elladan? What was his choice?

Always he had taken the Paths of the Eldar, lived as an elf and never thought more about it. But now his heart, he thought, was taken by the gracious Prince Imrahil… Is it? He wondered. Do I truly love him as Arwen loves Aragorn? As Elrohir loves Legolas?

No. That was not in Elladan's nature. He did not love like Elrohir, blazing with passion and desire and let none stand in his way, even Sauron. Elladan was quieter but it was no less deep. He wondered if what he felt for Imrahil was love, or merely desire, enjoyment. Infatuation?

Would Elrohir be alone on the last ship?

As if the mere thought had stirred him, Elrohir shifted and moved in his sleep. A quiet cry brought Elladan to his side and he pressed his hand over Elrohir's eyes, letting his own calm blue peace sink through his hand and into his brother's soul…

 _Peace, brother. Nothing is set. All is well._

Elrohir was not dreaming, he realised, but wrapped deeply in the coils of darkness and memory.

'Elrohir?' he said, feeling the tension in his brother's shoulders, recognising the bunched muscles of a swordsman. 'Awaken!' he cried and shook his brother, but the tendrils of memory escaped Elrohir's dreams and caught in Elladan's thoughts; he saw how Elrohir was remembering the Battle of the Morannon- how he had struggled finally against the Nazgûl who sought his soul to lead now that Angmar had been vanquished.

0o0o

Elrohir struggled in memory but it sucked him back as if he had never escaped the inexorable pull of the Dark, as if the Nazgûl still rode the air somehow and hunted him, sought him still…

 _The wind buffeted and blasted him so his long black hair streamed behind him. He was back upon the Morannon, before the Black Gate._

 _Ash nazg…_

 _He felt the Nazgul reach for him, wrapping their cold voices around him and he could no longer see Elladan, Legolas or Aragorn._

 _Already he felt a shift in the bodies piled behind and around him, the squelch of heavy iron shod feet stamping down on a Man behind him. Elrohir hurled himself round to face a huge Uruk._

 _The Uruk brought its scimitar down and drove it hard against Elrohir's blade, whipped it back swiftly and struck at his face. And then Aícanaro was struck away_

 _No!_

 _He threw himself after it, fingers grasped at the dark metal as it slid away. Desperately he scrabbled at nothing and suddenly his fingers bashed against a wooden edge, brought up a wooden buckler, thrust it in the Uruk's grinning face, and as the Uruk lurched backwards, he staggered to his feet. But its heavy jagged blade locked and smashed against the wood, shattering it. He felt his arm give and the wood spilt. He seized one half in both hands and blocked and blocked but each time the Uruk drove deeper, thrust harder, its lips drew back in a snarling grin and its little yellow eyes glinted. A red tongue flicked out and licked its fangs and it raised the scimitar high over its head and drove down, hard, hard enough for the wood to splinter, hard enough to drive the blade into Elrohir's shoulder, hard enough to drive him back down to his knees and he dropped the shield, leaning over, hands gripping the ground as he fought the dizzying whirl of the ground._

 _He wished he had not wasted all his long life in hatred and fear and self-loathing. He wished he could say he was sorry to Elladan. And to Legolas. Breathing hard, he waited for the world to stop spinning and he could feel, hear the Uruk's heavy tread approach._

 _And suddenly it stopped. The Orcs around him suddenly rippled and seemed nervous, fell back...A way opened before him and he raised his dizzy head. A thin black shroud fluttered slightly and then he saw a mailed fist raised, a heavy broadsword clasped before it._

 _Rávëyon._

 _He swallowed. Gripped the wet soil, the earth. The Nazgul seemed taller, darker, like it absorbed any light or warmth. Its cold shadow fell over him and his blood went cold. But he was Rávëyon, Elrohir Elrondion and he would be cowed by no rattling of old bones. So he told himself._

 _Lord._

 _Rávëyon._

 _Elrohir lifted his own grey eyes wearily upwards. It seemed to Elrohir then the dust had whipped up into the shapes of huge leathery winged beasts that dropped out of the sky and landed with heavy thuds. Darkness gathered where they landed. One threw its flat reptilian head up and gave a dreadful hissing shriek and snapped at the arrows that flew towards it and peppered its thick impenetrable hide. One unfurled its great wings and from its shadow there emerged a tall figure. In its mailed fist was a huge broadsword the equal perhaps of Aícanaro. The air was full of terrible cries that chilled his blood. The Nazgûl emerged from the red clouds and fog._

 _Ash nazg durbatulûk,_

 _The battle receded. He heard distantly his name called and thought someone might be shouting to him...And then all else faded and there was only him and the darkness…_

 _Ash nazg gimbatul_

 _They converged upon him. No longer separate entities but one. The Brethren. Unassailable they strode through the trolls and orcs and men. Great swords they held before them, gleaming. Empty hoods dark. A dark chant of deep voices, felt in the blood and bone, not heard. Resonance and power surged through the air, crept around him and he knew this was the end..._

 _Ash nazg thrakatulûk_

 _Words of summoning conjured from the blood-soaked air. Black threads scattered on Elrohir's skin, caught like spider webs, twined around him where he knelt weaponless, helpless._

 _... agh burzum-ishi krimpatul._

 _The words seemed to swirl and become darkness. Solidify. Black shrouds halted in a circle around him. Stood silent. Still. Waiting. And he could see beyond the veils now, could see their dim forms, the skeletons they were, the grinning empty eyes that burned, the hunger that devoured them. They were filled with a dreadful, gnawing hunger that they could not satisfy. Their lust and desire could not be assuaged. They were starving..._

 _Rávêyon. Lord... of the Brethren._

 _Slowly, they advanced and they did not hesitate or slow their advance. It seemed ponderous but it was swift nonetheless and there were seven blades all poised before him._

 _A tear down his arm and warmth oozed from the cut. Another on his chest and a sword that came suddenly from his left only to be cut on his right cheek. Another piercing cut on his shoulder, his arm, his hand, a blade sliced down thigh. He remembered, distantly that he had seen this before…_

 _Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul_

 _The words drew together in darkness and a red rim of fire burned the edge of the dark. It grew, fed off the dark. A ring of Fire...that burned and heated his skin._

 _The world tilted sideways and all was red with blood. Pain flooded him. Like he had never known and darkness fell over him. Head bowed. He was aware, but could not comprehend, that his tunic was soaking wet. He felt the throb and pulse of his blood; he had never felt it as strongly as he did now...it seemed to pulse strongly, to beat loudly but more slowly...yes, perhaps that was it. It was louder, but weaker...Aícanaro was not in his hand._

 _Ash nazg gimbatul._

 _It seemed the words trembled in the air, a dreadful summoning, an incantation that would bring the Eye to the midst of the battle, as it had on the mountainside and he trembled for his mortal blood. Fire licked across his skin, across the darkness, white fire. Lightning split the darkness, thunderbolts struck the earth and the world seemed plunged in darkness, the lightning struck the hilltops, struck great craters in the earth, and like Orthanc fire it killed Orcs and Men._

 _The fire grew more intense and the Ring grew brighter and then it opened. The Eye. Opened upon him... the Eye opened upon him and he felt his blood heat, burn, scald, boil and he gasped at the horror of it._

 _Rávëyon...At last._

 _He felt the cold iron upon his finger. A crown forced upon his head. It closed around his brow, bearing down upon him. Closed in on him so he cried aloud and struggled to take it off._

 _Rávëyon._

 _Long, pleasurable. Each syllable lingered over like a lover, with pleasure. The cold seemed to burn on his skin like it had been branded...and it felt...right..._

 _There was cold, cold pain and darkness and he thought the earth shuddered in horror but it might have been his own flesh as he was pierced. Somewhere he heard someone shouting, and he remembered a beloved voice telling him he would search everywhere...but his yôzâira could not follow this time._

He awoke with a start, trembling and sweat on his forehead, his upper lip and between his shoulder blades. Elladan's anxious face leaned over him.

'You dreamed,' Elladan said and Elrohir sat up.

'No. A memory that is all,' said Elrohir quickly, to soothe his brother's fears. 'Not a dream. The Morannon.'

Elladan nodded and sat back on his heels. He pushed his long hair back and licked his lips. His face too was pale, as if he had lived through the memory with Elrohir. 'That will haunt you for some time to come I think.'

Elrohir struggled upright and threw back the blanket that had become wrapped tight around him. He did not answer, ashamed of what he had done, and what he had not done.

'They are gone forever,' Elladan said softly. 'They cannot reach you where they have gone. The Nazgûl were sucked into the Eternal Dark with their Master when the One Ring was destroyed, were they not?' Elladan asked reasonably and Elrohir nodded acquiescence.

'I know. And all their rings are vanquished too, I know. But still …I feel their presence.' He shuddered. 'Like a vice in my heart.'

Elladan grasped his shoulder and turned his grey eyes to his brother's face then. 'No, brother. It cannot be. We saw them fall. We saw the Tower crumble and the land open up to swallow them. How could they have survived Sauron's fall?

Elrohir closed his eyes, his fingers touched the black metal of Aícanaro. 'If now they are loosed, not even Sauron's hand restrains them,' he said

'They are not,' said Elladan assertively. He shook Elrohir slightly by the shoulder. 'You are…confused. It is but memories and you are still perhaps a little sick?' For the Black Web had left its sticky tendrils in his blood and lingered still. 'When we reach the Golden Wood, we must ask Grandmother and Father to heal you. Do not fight me in this!' he protested before Elrohir could speak. 'You will do this to humour me and to please me. Eru knows, Elrohir, you owe me that at least.'

0o0o


	19. Chapter 19 Pursuit

**Chapter 19: Pursuit**

Legolas slipped over a wall, climbed up into a cloistered balcony and from there swung himself lightly over the gutters, pulling himself up onto the roofs of the city. His Lorien cloak, flattened against him by the wind, concealed him even if the citizens of Minas Tirith were abroad with the threat of such a storm as was coming across the Pelennor Fields and chanced to look upwards. Clouds loured over the city and seemed to have brought nightfall early but he could not wait. He needed to be swift if he wished to spy upon the house where they had met Ioralas' mother. It was too much of a coincidence that she had blundered into them in the market. And the two washer-women who had been hanging out washing in the courtyard had neither greeted the old woman nor seemed remotely surprised that she brought to her house a Hobbit and an Elf. More importantly, he wanted to see if the woman had any visitors, like the cloaked and shadowy figure that had followed Merry and him.

A great gale was blowing up from the sea, driving a storm pounding over the Pelennor Fields. Thunder rolled and great sheets of lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the whole world it seemed in silver bursts. And in the city itself the rain came down hard, the harbinger of the storm to come.

Legolas ran through the rain and over the roofs so lightly that never a single inhabitant noticed or if they did, they merely stirred and thought themselves dreaming of running deer through beech woods of green-gold sunlight and water gushing over the grey granite rocks. In the days of Denethor, each of the city gates was guarded during the day and locked at night in case of siege or treachery, and the custom yet prevailed. Legolas did not wish to draw attention and so had no choice but to climb down to the lower level by way of roofs and the city walls. At least the walls are not dwarven-delved, he thought gratefully, remembering the glass-smooth walls of Erebor's gates, Anglach standing above him, firing arrow after arrow into the swarming goblins and orcs below… Lossar had been there too. Briefly he pressed his head against the cold, limestone wall. Both dead. As cold as the rock and stone of this city of Men.

No. He would not go there. Not now. He shook his head, pressing his lips together and did not stop for long. He dared not for he would lose his quarry and more besides.

He leapt from the turreted walls of the fifth level wall to the rain-washed roofs of the fourth level below. There were plenty of taverns here, and market squares, stalls, seedy back alleys and illicit houses where men gambled and whored, even here in the White City. Not quite Aragorn's yet.

From the windows of the tavern Legolas had passed earlier that day yellow light spilled onto the puddles and a shout of laughter came from within. A woman stood outside, oblivious to the rain and swaying slightly, swigging from a bottle but Legolas was no innocent; he had seen the same on the streets of Esgaroth and Dale and he did not pause but kept to the shadows and climbed quickly over the narrow iron-wrought balconies that crowded together and blocked out the sky.

Now the gale blew the storm crashing over the city like a giant bestriding the Mindolluin and flailing at the city walls with thunder, lightning, and rain. The wind howled, snatching at Legolas' cloak and his hair and the rain whipped around him, stinging eyes and ears and skin.

He clambered over the wet slate roofs and skirted a huge black hole in the roof of one house where, during the war, a block of masonry had fallen through one floor after another after another, tearing down floors and walls and windows, and now the rain poured soddenly through the gaping hole and into the house below. Legolas clung to the chimney, buffeted by the wind and drenched by the rain, looking down into the empty courtyard of the house he had been led to by the woman purporting to be Ioralas' mother. Now it was deserted, lashed by the storm and flooded with rainwater. Not a single light was to be seen except for the lightning that split over the houses, and stabbed down into the streets. He was too late. No one was there.

Cursing, he squinted against the rain and settled himself as well as he could anyway, just in case; his back was against the tall chimney and the wind howled around him. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and sat in the cold rain to watch the empty house though without real hope that anyone was coming. He wondered where the real mother of Ioralas was and thought perhaps she had already left the city. Or was she dead? He wondered where Arduin was and suddenly felt a surge of fear for the Man. I will check on him tomorrow, he decided.

For more than an hour, he watched through that wild storm, and in that time not another soul moved. Rain lashed down suddenly, even more heavily, as if the clouds had broken. He pulled the hood of his Lorien cloak further over his head, not for shelter from the rain, but to hide the gleam of his hair, his face. He wondered who the woman was and why she had pretended to be Ioralas' mother. A puppet he decided, for surely she had no purpose but to tell him lies. But for whom was she working? The cloaked figure perhaps?

Suddenly everything was lit up by lightning. Through the torrential rain, he saw the black shapes of the ruined houses, roofs jagged and torn, the silvered cobbles and sliding shadows in the lightning. And then all was plunged again into darkness. It had grown late. Thunder crashed overhead almost immediately. In the empty street below nothing moved but the rain poured off the slate roofs, into the gutters and drainpipes and flooded the drains below so they were awash and puddled between the cobbles.

Except…

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen and he held his breath. Another flash of lightning lit up the courtyard below and through the window of the house, he thought he saw a dark shape suddenly move within.

He was sure of it; something was down there, inside the house.

He leaned forwards, straining to see through the rain that hammered at him. Lightning suddenly thrust down into the courtyard and he saw it; a dreadful face stared up at him through the window with absolute hatred, white, haggard in the lightning. And then it was gone.

Legolas froze. That face. Surely it was not human? Horror lifted the hair on his scalp and he felt his heart pound in his chest. Dread flooded through him as it had all those times in the South of the Wood where he had fought the Nazgûl for so many long years. He ducked down behind the chimney, clung to the stack in the rain, heart pounding and every nerve of his body telling him to run.

But this is NOT the Nazgûl, he told himself in desperate rationality. I saw them fall, I saw them sucked into the chasm that opened before the Black Gate. I saw them pulled into the Dark and they _cannot get out_.

He breathed slowly and steadied his heartbeat. _It is only fear_ , he told himself resolutely. It is lightning, catching on glass; moonlight reflecting on something within the house. Or it was the face of the Man who had followed Merry and him earlier? A Man, he reminded himself firmly. One who had bribed some old woman to lie to him and Merry.

He ducked through the hole torn into the roof and leapt into the attic, crouching under the rafters and shoved the door hard, almost falling through it when it opened suddenly. Half the stairs were missing and the huge block of masonry that had crashed through the roof and every floor, lay in the centre of the kitchen at the bottom of the house. Splinters of wood and shattered pottery lay on the cracked slate floor.

Something curled against his leg in the dark, pressed itself against his calf and he drew back in horror.

But then it purred and he saw it was the skinny little ginger cat he had seen earlier. 'Hello little sister,' he said softly and stroked its head. 'You are not safe here I think. Find somewhere warm where you will be well fed.'

He left it sitting on the broken stair next to a child's toy. The little cat watched forlornly as he left.

In the dark between lightning flashes he ran crouching along the outside wall of the courtyard and then ducked into a doorway. Squinting against the rain, he peered around the corner and through the window. But there was no movement. Wind rushed suddenly through the courtyard and rattled the glass in the window panes as if to alert anyone to Legolas' presence and he crouched low. But inside the house it was silent and still. At last he breathed and straightened; it **_must_** have been lightning reflecting off something, he told himself again ruefully, or old tattered curtains drifting in the wind.

It was merely that he had been reminded of the Nazgûl so acutely, he thought, that it had triggered that dread in him. He had been wired and as tense as his own bowstring. That was all. Still he wanted to check that the house truly was empty or if the Man who had been following Merry and him, if it were indeed a Man, was within.

He waited in the shadows. Another flash of lightning stabbed into the city, flashed light over the puddled courtyard. Thunder crashed above him. But nothing else moved.

Even so, he was silent and stealthy as he let himself into the house, holding his breath as he eased the front door open, bow already strung and arrow notched. It was unlocked and opened easily.

Nothing.

He shut the door behind him, keeping out the rain and wind.

The kitchen was empty as he had thought; no ghoul, white faced and reaching for his soul, no wraith. The grit and small pebbles he had seen under the table remained undisturbed and the only thing that was different was the earthenware jar had gone. He was not really surprised at that.

It must have been lightning reflecting on the broken glass, he told himself again. He kept his arrow nocked nevertheless.

Suddenly the thunder crashed so loudly it sounded like the rafters had cracked and lightning seemed to split the house asunder so he was lit up where he stood inside the kitchen. Eyes wide he looked out of the dirty window at the sky. Rain lashed at the glass, ran in rivulets and pooled onto the windowsill.

Suddenly there was a face at the window. White and haggard. Mouth open. Jagged teeth. And then it was gone.

Legolas stumbled back. The chair behind him crashed over and he spun around, arrow nocked. On the back of his neck, his hair was stiff and his fingers tingled. He shuffled backwards towards another door leading to a staircase, his eyes wide and terrified and fixed upon the front door. The shadows seemed to slide towards him and the clouds broke suddenly, moonlight gleaming on the slate floor. Cracked lines seemed to snake towards him.

He turned and fled, slamming the door to the stairs shut behind him. Heart pounding, he leapt up the stairs three, four at a time and over to a narrow window. The glass had already been shattered and scrunched underfoot. Below him, in the courtyard was a cloaked shadow. It raised its head like a hunting hound and though this time Legolas could not see its face, he knew it looked straight at him.

His heart pounded in his chest and he heard his breath rip from his throat. No, he told himself. It cannot be. The Nazgûl were gone. This could not be a wraith so it must be flesh and blood. He sighted along his arrow and let fly. His aim was true, he swore but the figure seemed to melt into shadows and he heard the arrow hit stone. He let fly another arrow from his bow into the darkness. Suddenly the shadows coalesced into a cloaked figure and it fled from him.

The Nazgûl would not have fled, he told himself sternly though he wanted to run the other way. He shoved his bow back in his quiver and drawing his long white knives, he leapt from the narrow window, rolling to break his fall and onto his feet, he sprang over the cobbles after the figure.

Suddenly something whizzed through the air towards him and he jerked backwards. A knife shuddered in the timbered doorpost behind him. He glanced at it briefly, pulled it from the doorjamb, shoved it into his boot and turned and leapt after the cloaked figure. It seemed to slide across the darkened courtyard ahead of Legolas at a terrible, unnatural speed and dissolved into the shadows. He hurled himself after it, dashing through the rain, knives in his hands. Lightning blazed across the city, and rain lashed down, so his face was soaking wet and his hair was plastered flat against his skull.

He skidded around a corner and hurtled through an empty square where there was no cover and then up one alleyway and down another. Always, the cloaked and hooded figure was just disappearing, or somehow just glimpsed at the end of the alley through the rain and he could not catch up.

A long flight of stone steps wound about the city walls and he saw it half way up as he arrived at the bottom. Leaping three, four at a time, he pursued but it was already gone when he reached the top. He stopped, gasping for breath, straining around him unbelieving. No Man could outrun him.

Rain battered his eyelashes and he wiped his eyes and face, wicked it from his hair.

His shoulders dropped and he breathed. He had lost it.

He pulled back slightly and stood in the cover of an arched doorway and listened….

The rain first. It had been swept up by the wind from the sea and thrown over the city. He did not dwell on the salt in the rain, the sea's pull on him like a tide…He listened more deeply to the stones of the city, deep rooted in the mountains; they had waited long for the feet of he who had returned, the blood of the Kings…He leaned forwards, tasting the air for a dissonance, for discord. And there, suddenly, it struck. A terrible shriek like nails down a board. Like the heart of a deer being torn from its breast. The Song was shattered. Like musical glass breaking. He clapped his hands over his ears and knew that this was no mere Man he pursued.

Thunder cracked suddenly, loudly overhead and he could not help but look upwards. And there, moving upwards like a bat climbing on its pinions, the figure was climbing the city walls. He could see it like a black blur against the white limestone. It moved with preternatural speed and agility. Faster than he could himself.

He swore roundly, thoroughly, and was glad that none was there to hear it.

What choice did he have but to follow? He slid his knives into their sheaths and began to climb, swiftly finding toeholds and handholds in the wet, pitted wall. He was aware that the buttresses sloped slightly inwards and that a little further on, the walls gave way to bare rock; above him were the great stone arches of the bridge that led from the sixth level to the House of the Dead. He was directly beneath the Rath Dínen and the figure was heading to the Silent Street.

Sheet lightning flared over the limestone walls, casting the shadows more deeply. Breathing hard, he glanced up briefly against the rain to see that the figure had gained the parapet and was looking down at him; its dark hood framed its white and haggard face, not like a Man's but ghoulish, stretched somehow and its mouth was open, like it was screaming though no sound came. With a shock he was reminded of his own reflection in the mirror in Minas Morgul.

The figure disappeared for a moment and then suddenly reappeared. It raised its sleeve and a heavy stone struck the side of his head with shattering force. For a moment, he reeled and felt himself slip. The rock face was wet beneath his hands and boots. Another heavier rock hit him squarely on the shoulder this time and he dug his fingers into little cracks in the stone and pressed himself flat against the sheer rock face fighting dizziness. Then another and another stone hit him, each one heavier, bigger than the last and at last he felt a pain crunch in his shoulder and arm, and he lost the nerves in the fingers of his right hand. Glancing down, he saw how far he would fall and how sharp the rocks below. Without a doubt, he would be killed.

And then he saw something flutter in the buffeting wind. Tattered fabric. Red and white. A guardsman's uniform. There, in the lightning, he saw a body caught in the scrub and thorns below the Rath Dínen.

He had found Ioralas.

It occurred to him that he was no longer being pelted with rocks and looked upwards, but the figure had gone. He listened, leaning his forehead against the stone and feeling for the dissonance in the Song. But there was nothing.

Whatever it was had gone.

He leaned against the wall, feeling the rain soak through his cloak, tunic. Although he had lost what he hunted, he was not sorry. Whatever it was, he admitted now, he did not want to meet it alone … And besides, below him lay the body of Ioralas.

He climbed slowly, painfully down to where Ioralas lay face-down and twisted in the thorns. One arm was stretched out and the other was trapped beneath him. It looked like an accident, Legolas thought. The rain had soaked the clothes of the young Man, and his hair was plastered slick over his back of his skull where a nasty cut showed pale and white for any blood must have been washed away by the rain. He must have hit his head in the fall.

Legolas sank to one knee for his shoulder was very painful and the side of his head was hurting. Gently he lifted the body and turned it over. But when he saw its face, he almost fell back. For it was white. Not just the paleness of a corpse. But absolutely stark white. Like it had been drained of all blood.

0o0o

The Watch were quick to come to Legolas' cry for help, and before long Men with ropes and lanterns were clambering carefully over the wet rocks beneath the bridge that was the Silent Street. A sheet wrapped the dead Man. Because they knew there had been a search for one of the Tower Guard, the Watch Constable despatched a message to Beregond, whom he knew well, and one to Faramir, who was their commander. The Constable, who was a good Man and kindly, had listened to Legolas, companion to the King, and in spite of his awe of this hero of the War, he recognised that the Elf was soaked to the skin, had been chasing about all night doing Illuvatar knows what, but certainly was in shock. There was blood all down one side of his face and his shoulder dipped as if he was hurt. The Constable recognised when a situation was beyond him and so he also sent a message to fetch one of the King's Companions, preferably the Lord Gimli, so that someone more experienced was in charge of the situation. And by situation, he did not mean the body - he had dealt with accidents before - but the Elf.

Embarrassingly though, when the Constable turned from his Men to give these orders and back to the Lord Legolas, Hero of the Pelennor Fields, he saw that the Elf had gone. The Constable winced slightly, and then because he felt there would be trouble when it arrived, he berated his men who had not even noticed the Elf slip away. He sincerely hoped that the Lords Legolas and Gimli might meet each other half way for he did not really want to be in the middle.

0o0o

Legolas had one more task yet before he could return to other members of the fellowship.

Quickly, he returned to the empty street and searched the abandoned houses. He did not fear that the figure had returned; it had gone and he felt no dissonance in the air or the Song. He managed to wash the blood from his face in the rain. At last he felt something curl about his lower leg, pressed against him and he reached down to scoop the little cat he had stroked earlier. 'There you are little sister,' he said softly. Curling the cat into the crook of his arm he tucked it away in his tunic where it purred happily.

When he returned to where he had found Ioralas' body, Gandalf was there. The Wizard must have been summoned, Legolas thought, by the Watch Constable. Gandalf half turned at Legolas' approach and inclined his head meaningfully to a spot behind Legolas.

But he did not need to turn his head to feel Gimli's fury; the stone itself seemed to reverberate, like a bellow of outrage was rolling round the stone walls, through the cobbles themselves so Legolas thought he almost felt the rock beneath his feet tremble.

'You blithering half-witted pointy-eared horse-lover!' bellowed Gimli. 'What in all of Mahal's name do you think you are doing running around out here in the storm and chasing after Mahal knows what! And don't tell me you were protecting us!' Gimli roared as he strode up to Legolas and jabbed him hard in the chest. 'You do me great wrong.'

Legolas bowed his head as if deeply penitent. 'I know,' he said softly, eyes gleaming. 'I misjudged you, Elvellon.'

Gimli stared up at him, growing fury in his eyes. He brushed Legolas' forehead with his fingers and held them up for emphasis; his fingertips were bloody. 'Don't laugh at me about this, Legolas,' he said seriously. 'Don't. I told you. I will always be at your side. I have your back. But I cannot do that if you keep going off without telling me what you are doing.'

Legolas frowned. 'What do you mean? When have I done that before?'

Gimli's earth-brown eyes looked up at him with such serious regard, such betrayal that Legolas paused.

'Oh,' Legolas said, remembering. He winced. 'Yes… There was that one time.'

'Yes,' said Gimli sarcastically. 'There was that one time.' He planted himself firmly in front of Legolas. 'That one time that you left with Elrohir to go and sacrifice yourself to the Nazgûl so that Sauron would think that Merry or Pippin had the Ring and so move his gaze here instead of Ithilien.' The dwarf's voice grew in the telling, resounding from the walls, rolling through stone so that Legolas thought he must awaken all the city. 'Yes! That one time!'

Legolas bowed his head and this time it was not to hide his amusement. 'Yes. That one time. But that was as necessary then as it is now. I had to come over the roofs to trap a shadow,' he explained.

'And have you trapped it?' Gimli demanded. He looked about himself with exaggerated care. 'I seem to have missed it. Oh- of course it is a shadow so perhaps I cannot see it!'

Legolas shifted uncomfortably. 'That is true,' he admitted sheepishly. 'I lost it.'

Gimli threw up his hands as if in disbelief. 'Oh! You lost it. Well perhaps if you had a dwarf at your side, you would have caught this shadow if there even was one.'

'Gimli, listen. I know you are angry but I could not spare the time to return for you. I would have if I could,' he lowered his voice and pulled Gimli to one side. 'It was some ghoulish thing. It felt like the Nazgûl,' he muttered, glancing at the Watch Constable.

Instantly Gandalf was at his side and listening while Legolas told both the Wizard and Dwarf what had happened.

'But, as you can see,I could not catch it,' he said in conclusion and gestured to where the men were bringing up the body from the rocks beneath the tall bridge. ' But I have found something else.'

Gimli sighed, all bluster and fury gone. 'Aye. We are too late for him... But that might have been you, Legolas!' He remembered how angry he was and glared at Legolas again. 'If what you feared was indeed what you pursued, you are fortunate to even be here.'

Gandalf studied Legolas. 'Are you sure it was a wraith? Did anyone else see it?' he asked. 'I do not see how it could be what you think it is when all were sucked into the Dark at Sauron's fall.'

'No. I do not think that at all.' Legolas shook his head. 'And for the very reasons you give. Yet I pursued it here and could not catch it.'

'Some other thing then?' said Gimli with a shudder. 'Some other creature that was not tied to Sauron perhaps? There are more things in the deeps and dark places of the world than were just Sauron's servants.'

Legolas gave the dwarf an oblique glance but as he opened his mouth to speak, the Watchmen brought the body down past them and instead Legolas asked Gandalf, 'How long do you think he has lain there?'

Gandalf looked up at the high bridge above them. 'I would think he fell the night he disappeared. He must have been killed outright.'

'Where will you take him?' Gimli asked the Constable.

'The Houses of Healing first,' the Constable said. 'It is ironic is it not? But Beregond will want to see him and ascertain there was no foul play.'

'No foul play?' Gimli declared. 'Well clearly there ….ouch. Legolas, what are you doing?'

'Forgive me, Gimli,' Legolas apologised with deep concern. 'I must have stepped on your foot by mistake. How clumsy of me.'

The Constable gave them a knowing look and then bowed his head slightly to each of them. 'I will tell Beregond that you found the body, my lord,' he said to Legolas. 'And I also understand the need for discretion.' He smiled slightly. 'I am sure that Beregond will be happy to share anything with you that he finds.'

'Thank you,' Legolas said.

Gimli stood close to Legolas and muttered, knowing full well that Legolas could hear every word, 'Do not think for one single moment that you are off the hook. There is a lot more I wish to say about you going off on your own after some ghoulish shadow. And do not seek to distract me.'

'I would not dream of it,' said Legolas smoothly. 'But first there is something else that needs taking care of.' He reached into his tunic and drew out the small, skinny little cat and held it out to Gimli. 'Just hold this a moment while I find it.' He dropped the cat into Gimli's hands and the dwarf had no choice but to catch it. It squirmed briefly, righting itself and then curled into the dwarf's beard with an ecstatic purring that resonated through the dwarf's whole being.

'Pah! What is this wee beastie?' Gimli spat angrily, carefully cradling the cat in the crook of his arm and against his chest so it would not get wet in the rain. 'Are you bringing home flea-ridden pests now? It is not fit for anything, look at these ribs poking through like it's a little toast-rack,' he said gruffly and Legolas hid a smile.

'Yes of course. Put it down, Gimli,' the Elf said matter-of-factly. 'It probably has fleas. We cannot have such a thing in the house and what will we do with it when we leave?' He smiled indulgently because Gimli was not looking at him but gazing at the little cat with undisguised delight.

'We can't possibly take it with us. Even if there are lots of mice and rats in the Mountain for little ginger warriors like you,' he crooned at the little cat which purred even more loudly and looked up at the dwarf. Its little face seemed to squeeze up into a smile.

0o0o

Although Gimli was still cross with Legolas, he could not raise his voice for the little cat had curled up so trustingly in his arms that he could not bear to waken it. Its purr resonated through his own chest and the little beast seemed to vibrate with the force of its delight to be warm and safe.

'I shall call you Azaghâl,' he thought and as if the cat knew, it raised its head and looked at him with big green eyes and purred even more loudly. Legolas was insisting that Azaghâl's basket be made of willow, which was the silliest thing Gimli had ever heard, but at least the Elf agreed it needed a wooden scratching post and the very finest poultry and fish from Pelargir.

'Glaurung will need to be fed three times a day at first,' Legolas was saying and Gimli wondered why on earth Legolas was talking about a long-dead dragon.

Gandalf humphed. 'Take that cat back to the house, Legolas and feed it. Gimli, you are coming with me. There is something I need you to do. And **_you_** ,' he glared at Legolas from under his bristling eyebrows, 'are not coming. Go and tell Merry and Pippin what has happened and get yourself cleaned up. We will join you soon.'

Legolas opened his mouth to protest but Gimli, rather smugly, held the cat towards him with a last tickle under its chin, and it latched onto the Elf with its claws and scrambled up onto his shoulder.

In spite of the good humour and levity with which he had engaged Legolas on the way back, Gimli was in fact deeply disturbed by what Legolas had said about this ghoulish shadow. And so he insisted on watching Legolas all the way to the door of the house and only turned back to Gandalf when he had seen that Merry had opened the door and all were safe.

'Now,' he said, eyes gleaming with interest. 'What would you have me do?'

Gandalf breathed in and looked seriously at the dwarf. 'I need you to come with me through the Rath Dínen to the Houses of the Dead.'

0o0o0o

Next chapter: Gandalf and Gimli visit the Tombs of the Stewards. Elrohir arrives in Lothlorien.


	20. Chapter 20 The House of the Dead

Thank you to the very lovely Anarithilen as always.

Thanks to those who review or leave kudos etc. You encourage me.

 **Chapter 20. The Houses of the Dead.**

The storm had abated and the city was left soaked but surviving the battering, like a ship at sea. In the darkest hours before dawn, Gimli leaned over the parapet of the Rath Dínen, the Silent Street, and looked down. The bridge was very high, and far below were the sharp rocks upon which Legolas had found Ioralas' body. No wonder it killed the boy, Gimli thought sadly. He imagined how it must have been to fall all that way and crash heavily upon the rocks, crushing the breath from his body, bones snapping upon impact, limbs twisted…He wondered if Ioralas had died immediately or been left there in agony and died slowly, in pain. Alone….

And he was so white…not just corpse-white. But like he had been drained of his blood. And there had not been much blood on the rocks, Gimli thought, frowning. True, the rain had been very heavy, but enough to wash it all away? Legolas said that a ghoul had led him here. But if that were true, why did it want Legolas to discover the body and why now? And how it had escaped the Elf, disappearing into darkness above the Silent Street for Gimli could not imagine anything able to escape the Elf's swift feet.

Gimli looked up at the craggy outcrop above him. It was steep and impossible to climb. But the rough rock face would have presented no problem to something that could so easily have climbed the tall smooth piers of the bridge, as Legolas had said it had. To his right was the city, the Tower of Ecthelion standing proudly at the summit, and to his left, the House of the Dead, the burial chambers of the Kings and Stewards of Gondor. But these were guarded and surely they would have seen the ghoul as it climbed over the parapet at least?

Gimli stroked his beard, wondering. Then he shrugged for he was not going to answer any questions standing here and staring into space.

Gandalf was already striding along the bridge, his white robes billowing behind him. Quickly, Gimli followed, for even if the Wizard lead him into the tombs of the Kings and Stewards, he was still with Gandalf and he did not think Legolas' ghoul or the ghosts of dead Men, even the mad Denethor, held much fear for Gandalf.

He did not know if it was his imagination, but it seemed much colder once they had crossed the bridge. There was a small guardroom at the end of the bridge which led into the crypt. Two guardsmen came out and hailed them when they saw Gandalf and Gimli. One was Cendir, with whom Gimli had spoken before. The other was a handsome, younger Man but his eyes were anxious and he looked tired, like he had not slept for worry.

'Good evening, Cendir!' Gimli smiled and nodded at the other Man. 'Have you seen anything of note during the night?' he asked as casually as he could, thinking that had they seen this ghoul of Legolas', they would be less settled and surely have roused the Tower guard.

'It has been very quiet tonight up here, my lords,' said Cendir. 'But there has been some disturbance in the third or fourth level. We heard the Watch bell ring.' He paused and then said, 'My lords, I cannot think what brings you to this place unless it be that you search for some clue about Ioralas' whereabouts.' He glanced in concern at his companion, whose face had paled. 'But I assure you, Beregond has been here already, when Maltök reported that Ioralas had not turned up for his duty. He found not a thing.'

Gandalf glanced at Gimli and sighed. The Wizard was very gentle when he spoke. 'I am sorry, my friends. That is what you heard below…This very night Legolas found Ioralas' body. I am afraid he is dead.'

The other Man took a step back with a terrible cry, hand over his mouth. 'It cannot be! Dead?' He sank onto the ground, head in his hands.

Cendir stood, shocked and grieved. 'This is Arduin. He was…'

'Yes,' Gimli said quickly. 'Yes. We understand.' He gave a deep sigh and shook his head. 'I am sorry you had to hear it like this, my friend.' He put his strong, square hand upon Arduin's shoulder and let the warmth of the forge sink into it. 'I have no clever words to bring you comfort. But we have found him at least and he lies in the Houses of Healing until you can claim him.'

Arduin looked up, his face streaked with tears. 'Forgive me, my lord. Forgive me. I just…' He swallowed. 'I suppose I knew. I just _hoped_ …' He rubbed his face. 'Did he… did he suffer, do you think?'

Gimli paused for a moment and then spoke slowly, gently so the Man had time to absorb it. 'He fell it seems. His body was upon the rocks, under the bridge.' He did not speak of the whiteness of his corpse, nor the ghoul that Legolas had said had led him to this place.

Arduin gave a cry and stumbled to his feet, grasping the edge of the parapet and staring down into the chasm below. 'No! He could not be…I looked…' He turned back distraught.

'Legolas found him when he was…at the foot of the bridge.' Gimli took a step towards the parapet himself and looked over. All was darkness below and they could not even see the rocks upon which Ioralas had fallen. 'It was not obvious. You could not have seen him from up here. There was a narrow gully. He had fallen into it. There was nothing you could have done, even had you known he was there. He would have died instantly.' Gimli heard the words leave his lips. It was not the first time he had given such news. But it never came any easier.

'Come, Arduin.' Cendir slowly reached for Arduin and took him by the arm and guided him back to the little guardroom. 'Thank you, my lords, for bringing us this news.' He glanced up at the sky. 'We will be relieved at dawn. I will take him to Beregond then.'

Gandalf nodded reassuringly. 'That is well,' he said kindly. 'But we have not just come to give you this news. Lord Gimli and I have an important task for the King. We must inspect that which you guard.'

Cendir rose to his feet as if to accompany them but Gandalf pressed him back. 'Look after your friend. We can find what we need.'

Cendir nodded and Gandalf turned. 'Come along, Gimli. We have work to do.' The Wizard strode towards the crypts of the Kings and Stewards.

Gimli keenly felt the cold in the pit of his belly. He looked up at the tall mausoleum of the stewards, its façade of marble and basalt, an austere and stark contrast of black and white. Gandalf leapt up the few shallow steps that led to a grand portico of white marble inlaid with gleaming obsidian and the huge bronze door that towered above them magnificently.

Slowly, ponderously, the door swung open.

Inside, the darkness was pushed back by the reddish glow of two torches that were stuck into bronze and copper sconces upon the walls. Darkness did not worry Gimli, who was used to being underground and he would have welcomed the chance had it not been that Gandalf led him into a tomb. The torchlight made their shadows enormous, and Gimli saw his own, a giant dwarf with an axe, looming into the darkness ahead of him.

He faltered. 'Gandalf, will you tell me now what it is that we do? Is it Legolas' ghoul we pursue?'

' _Legola_ _ **s**_ ' ghoul? Do you doubt him?' Gandalf turned and looked at Gimli, a slight smile on his lips. But before Gimli could answer, he had already taken a torch from the nearest sconce. 'No. We are not here for that.'

In the torchlight ahead was a long passageway that stretched into darkness, and along each wall were niches, smooth as eggshells; within each was a tomb upon which lay the bronze effigy of the steward whose bones lay within, eyes open as if aware of their passing, and a sword clasped in his bronze hands.

'These are the Stewards,' said Gandalf solemnly. 'The Kings lie in their own crypt further in. Much grander.'

Gandalf paused for a moment before one. A sword was laid upon the tomb but no bronze effigy rested here. 'Here is Denethor's tomb.' It was as if Denethor had laid his sword here but could not rest in peace, instead forever pacing these halls, like a madman.

Gimli pulled his beard and looked around himself, almost expecting to see a ghostly spectre walking down the passageways, flaming brand in hand. And then he saw there was a second empty tomb here. No sword was upon it but instead, a broken horn.

Boromir.

Gimli took a step back in shock. Boromir, whose body they had laid in a boat and sent over the Rauros Falls. The Horn of Gondor had come to Gondor's shores, Gimli remembered Pippin had told them and it had pushed Denethor further into despair…Here it lay. All that remained of Boromir.

For a moment, Gimli stood before the empty niche and he wanted to bow his head, offer a prayer to Mahal for it seemed somehow shocking to think of both Boromir and Denethor's violent ends, one in courage and the other a despair at the loss of the first. Gimli thought he might understand those Men who made a homage here; for Boromir had been their captain, their protector for many years and his father had ruled long and well before he despaired.

'Aragorn must do right by both these Men,' he heard himself say. 'He must commission their likenesses and make public ceremony, giving Boromir his due.'

'And he will,' Gandalf said softly.

'He died bravely in the end,' Gimli said roughly for he did not trust himself to say more and he felt Gandalf 's hand on his shoulder and knew that the Wizard understood.

'Come,' said Gandalf. 'Leave the dead to lie in peace.'

'As long as they _are_ in peace,' said Gimli, following Gandalf. 'Is this ghoul some restless soul, or demon of the dark?' He found his voice lowering to a whisper

'I do not know what the ghoul is,' said Gandalf. 'Not yet. And I have not brought you here to chase a ghoul that Legolas could not catch,' he added grumpily. 'You will remember that Legolas found a Mirror when we were in the tower at Minas Morgul?'

'Of course.' Gimli remembered how Legolas had been unsettled on his return; the tower was a haunted, dreadful place full of blood and fear. Gimli had been only too pleased to leave it.

'I had it brought with us as you know. You cannot leave such artefacts lying around for anyone to find.' Gandalf said reasonably, lifting the torch higher and striding down the cold smooth passageway.

'So it must have some power then,' Gimli said. 'Like the Mirror of Galadriel perhaps?' he added, following. He did not speak of the other mirror, the one in Phellanthir that Elrohir had told Legolas had been made by Guhnâlzirâmuzbad himself, whom the elves called Celebrimbor. Gimli felt a little frisson of excitement; perhaps this one too was made by Guhnâlzirâmuzbad and Gimli was going to get the chance to examine it himself! Well worth a trip through this gloomy place, he thought gleefully.

'Yes, I believe it may have Power,' Gandalf said. He strode quickly through the quiet dark, their shadows running on ahead of them, huge one moment and then lost in the dark. 'I hid it in here. The dead have no fear,' Gandalf continued. 'They have no enemies or shadows to conjure from the Dark.'

Gimli stared at the back of Gandalf's head, less excited than he had been. 'Shadows to conjure from the Dark?'

Gandalf turned to face Gimli then. 'I am trusting you with a great secret, Gimli.' Gandalf looked at him with great seriousness. 'None must know what the Mirror can do,' he said emphatically. 'If it fell into the wrong hands, it could wreak havoc and all that we have worked for will be undone.' The Wizard's eyes were troubled and distant now, looking inwards. 'I do not know how, but in Phellanthir, that Mirror was a window to the Dark…'

'Ah! That is what Elladan was angry about! He thought this one too held danger. He must know about the one in Phellanthir. Of course.' The dwarf clicked his fingers at himself.

Gandalf looked serious. 'This is not a game, Gimli! This is a dangerous artefact. You must understand.' He rapped his staff on the ground as if Gimli was not paying attention. 'Listen to me! I had a message from Glorfindel that I must come in haste to Phellanthir. And when I arrived, Glorfindel, and Erestor too, swore that within the Mirror, they had seen a Balrog. The very same that slew Glorfindel and was slain by him upon the Cristhorn.'

All Gimli's excitement fled. Instead cold tiptoed over his skin, made his hair prickle. 'That cannot be possible,' he said quietly. 'You mean it conjured an image of the Balrog in the glass? It reflected his memory, like some sort of… transmission of thought?'

Gandalf shook his head. 'No. It is not as simple as that.' He pressed his lips together and frowned for a moment, thinking. 'I am trying to explain it to you. The Balrog did not simply appear as an illusion or a glimpse into the past. It was actually there. Contained, no, not contained by the Mirror. It could not break through. I believe that Glorfindel's presence drew the Balrog to him. He was somehow, a magnet.'

Gimli tried to imagine it: Glorfindel standing looking into a mirror and a Balrog staring back.

Gandalf gave a small sigh. 'Gimli, I need to make you understand. I am going to show you what happened. Do not be afraid. It is memory.

He placed his hand upon Gimli's shoulder and turned him so that Gimli was facing the Wizard. He looked up into Gandalf's piercing blue eyes and for a moment, he saw not the Wizard, but something, someone else; radiant, light shining through him, long silver-white hair and a face of such benevolence and stern kindliness he felt like weeping. And then that melted away and he was standing somewhere else….

 _At the top of the stairs was a long passage and the daylight faded into dimness but Gandalf could see great bronze doors thrown wide open and buckled as if an intense heat had melted them. He paused at the top of the stairs for he could feel that Power rippled across the entrance of the doors, almost tangible. Stepping towards the doors, he narrowed his eyes, letting himself slip from his flesh, muscle and bone, and though his bodily presence kept its shape and form to all who looked, Ólorin slipped from his corporeal case and slowly approached the doors. Like water, the darkness parted before and around him, and lights glimmered like rainbows and then split into the vertical lines of the helyanwë. He felt the resonance of Power, deep Power such as he had never felt this side of the Sea…_

 _He peered into the dark and listened…_

 _There was silence at first, and then a strange, deep note chimed far off in the darkness. It was a rare, rich chord of indescribable loveliness and Ólorin felt his own spirit tremble in response. It drifted in the empty silence like a ship's bell. Lost. And the loneliness was overwhelming._

 _And then another sound, more strident and angry, a hollow roar that was disembodied, its parts flung as far and as wide as the strange, lost chord_

 _There has been a battle, Ólorin thought. This distant, enraged bellow he knew was the Balrog, its rage resonated through the emptiness, as if it remembered how it had been vanquished. This was Ruinátoró, Glorfindel's nemesis. Shadow and flame. Its bellow drifted further and quieter, dimming in the emptiness of the Void._

 _Then all was quiet. The lost note of silver-blue and fire faded and the Balrog's furious bellow was silent._

 _Ólorin stilled himself, let Narya open and sift the particles and resonances that were deep below the sounds of the world…There was a stillness beneath, somewhere in the Dark. Distant and far. Something that waited. A crushing strength and heavy malice._

 _There was a subtle shift in the Dark, as if Something's attention gradually came to rest upon a thin patch of grey light in the Dark here where there was no light, like a pool in the shadowed woods …Something slid its attention towards that patch of thin grey light. Grinding metal and steel and old, old, Power. Strong. Not diminished. Not truly vanquished or chained. But waiting…_

 _Slowly, with immense care that he did not disturb the air in this place, nor alert the Presence that he, Ólorin, was here, he stepped back and slid into the old Man's flesh and bone, felt the sinews stretch and the muscle bunch. Silently, leaving barely a ripple, he drew back and closed Narya, pulled her red Power towards him and shielded her from the subtle, shifting attention. It seemed to slip over him and did not catch on his dimmed and flesh-clad spirit, seeking instead perhaps that lost chord of silver-blue and fire. He felt the misery of its dispersal, and the Presence slipped its attention ravenously towards the drifting loveliness of the lost chord._

 _….He was outside the Óromarde of Celebrimbor. Glorfindel stood with Gandalf and Erestor, a strange elf stood with them with light armour and a sword clasped in his hand._

 _'I dare not go back in.' Glorfindel's hand clasped the hilt of his sword as if it were an old friend. His voice did not tremble but that did not mean he was not afraid. 'On the other side of the Glass is the Absolute Dark,' he said quietly and Gandalf leaned in to listen for this was what he had feared. 'I brought the Balrog,' Glorfindel continued. 'Somehow it knew I was here on this side and it assailed the Glass trying to break free, to reach me.' He shook his head uncomprehending but Gandalf looked past him and into the gloom within where this Glass was. He gestured towards the buckled and twisted doors. 'And clearly there is danger within these doors that we do not yet understand. If the Balrog was in there and merely the heat from its_

 _presence wreak that destruction upon the doors of this place, then what else might be?'_

 _What else indeed, thought Gandalf and he peered through the gloom into the darkness within and thought that now he knew._

Gimli almost stumbled as he came back to himself and was aware that he was staring up at Ólorin with his mouth open… No. Gandalf, he thought slowly, words trying to mould themselves around his thoughts that were too huge, too momentous.

I am just an Iron-Master, he thought slowly. I cannot comprehend this. The idea of the Mirror was beyond him, perhaps not even one of the Lords of Fire, the Rîgakha-mesh could comprehend what had been done here to create such an artefact. One that could open a door like this…

'…Gimli…..Gimli..;

'Yes…Yes…' He drifted a while, wondering about the lost chord, the silver-blue note that was not of the Dark…

He became aware of Gandalf's voice calling to him and a warmth on his shoulder that suffused his whole being. He looked up at Gandalf with more clarity now. 'I begin to understand now, Gandalf. A door to the Dark perhaps?'

'Yes. A door. Perhaps. You see why I could not allow Legolas near it.'

'Yes. Yes, of course.' His brightness will attract things in the darkness, the Nazgûl would be drawn to him like moths…he thought and knew he still shared Ólorin's thoughts… Or bats.

There had been bats at the Battle of Erebor, he remembered. Huge, black clouds of them that had dropped upon the Khazâd and tore at the flesh with sharp fangs.

'We cannot leave these Mirrors here for Men to discover and use without wisdom,' Gandalf said softly. 'When we all have gone, there will be no one left who remembers, and they might unleash the Dark upon themselves. I cannot leave it here.'

Gimli nodded slowly. Yes. Yes, I see. You cannot leave it. You cannot destroy it.

Gandalf smiled slightly. Come then, Gimli Aulësson indeed.

He turned and Gimli followed as if in a dream, as if floating with no physical awareness. The white robes susurrused around him like the foam on waves, and it seemed Ólorin was ahead of him, slipping in and out of mortal flesh and bones, that the spirit the old man's body contained was growing too much for it, that it had to escape soon.

He thought he heard a scrape as if some dead warrior of bronze had turned his head and watched them pass with those empty eyes that had no iris, no pupil …

Gandalf pushed open the door to a small chamber. It was empty but for a brazier that was full of white ash and cold. There were rust-coloured marks on the marble floor like someone had spilt something but Gimli did not look closely. A chair stood nearby, as if someone had been sitting at the brazier trying to keep warm. Who would want to sit in here, thought Gimli distantly, still bemused and enchanted, with all those dead Stewards? But Gandalf seemed not at all interested in any of this. He took two strides to the back of the chamber and Gimli saw that something stood at the back in the shadows, swathed in white.

Gandalf stood to one side and his fingers caught at the edge of the white cloth and Gimli saw now that it was in fact, Gandalf's own cloak. He blinked slowly; he had not even noticed that Gandalf was no longer wearing it.

Slowly the cloak slipped away and he saw a face staring back at him in the darkness, beard, dwarvish braids. His lips parted and he saw the face copied him.

Gimli stared for a moment. It was the Mirror. And his own face in the glass- he should have expected it.

Gandalf was poking around at the back of it. 'Gimli come here please. Don't stand there gawking at yourself.'

He stepped sideways quickly, and he peered at the mirror's surface, expecting to see the fine layer of copper that Guhnâlzirâmuzbad was known to have been used, according the Azaghâl at least. And a mithril compound coating the copper. But there was nothing. Perhaps it has worn away with age, Gimli thought. He scraped a finger down the silvered glass surface and frowned. This looked like simple glass. Then he peered at the frame; it was made with some sort of copper compound, but Gimli thought it inferior stuff. His frown deepened. There were very few nicks or scratches upon it if it was of such a great age. He shook his head. If he did not know better, he would say it was new. Even if in bringing it from Minas Morgul, they had taken very very great care. He shook his head. This was no fine craftsmanship. This was nothing.

'Gandalf…' he said. 'I think you have gone to a lot of trouble for nothing. The Nazgûl were simply vain after all!' He laughed, remembering how he had imagined the Nazgûl admiring their black shrouds in the mirror, looking this way and that.

But the Wizard tore the white cloak from the mirror and hurled it on the floor. 'You think I don't know Power when I see it, Gimli Gloinsson! You must think me just some old conjurer who can only set off fireworks! Fool of a dwarf! This is not the Mirror we brought from Minas Morgul. This is a fake! The Mirror has been stolen!'

0o0o

Legolas lay on the iron bed in the room he had been left rather than claimed. The little cat, Glaurung, lay on his feet and he dared not move for she slept so deeply. Now and again her little paws twitched and she whimpered. When she did that, he reached over and stroked a hand down her rough fur and hummed so she shifted and sighed and slept again, smiling a little cat smile. Her fur would smooth and soften once she had been fed properly and loved, he thought.

He had put his meagre belongings around the room; the mended tunic of moss green suede hung in the small wardrobe, and in a chest of drawers were the two linen shirts he had brought with him from the Wood so he had one clean one. His boots were curled under a chair like a leathery snake and his pack was slung over the chair. His knives were carefully laid on a small table beneath the window and his bow and quiver leaned against the same table. The small silver mirror remained turned over so its mirrored surface was against the wall. He still could not bear to look into it.

The ghoul that he had pursued across the city had been real, no imagined thing, he knew. The bruises on his shoulder and the cuts on his face were testament to that. There was too, the knife that he had pulled from the door jamb. That was very real. The device upon the hilt of the dagger puzzled him; it had the letters R, ND,R surmounted by three five-pointed stars.

He lay with his hands under his head, ankles crossed and stared up at the ceiling. The plaster was cracked, he noticed. Hardly surprising, he supposed, after the pounding the city had taken in the siege.

He wondered what Gandalf and Gimli were doing. There was no question that it was right he should not have gone with them and that he needed to rest after the rocks that had rained down upon him. His head had been pounding and he felt dizzy, and his shoulder was very painful. When he had told Merry what had happened, Merry had roused the other hobbits and they had busied themselves looking after Legolas, pouring him tea and feeding him toast and cakes while Sam bathed the blood from the cut above his eye. The salve Sam put on the cut had stung like hell but stopped the bleeding. Meanwhile Frodo had managed to extract him from Glaurung's determined little claws and taken the skinny little cat into the kitchen. He fed her scraps of chicken, then scrambled an egg for the cat and finally given her a bowl of cream. All of which Glaurung had promptly sicked up over Gimli's slippers. Secretly Legolas was delighted.

But it was morning now and neither Gimli nor Gandalf had yet returned. He fretted and picked at the threads of the counterpane. It was already a little threadbare in places and there was something satisfying about pulling the long threads free. He wondered what they had been doing. Below, he could hear Pippin banging pots around and making breakfast for it was his turn. Glaurung lifted her head and leapt from the bed, darting through the door. Her little feet pounded down the stairs, more heavily than one would expect.

Legolas didn't feel like breakfast.

He felt sick. The ghoul that he had chased across the city had moved with uncanny speed, climbing up the bridge in a disjointed unnatural manner … He had seen that once before; in the South. He lay on the bed now, letting himself drift back into reveries, trying to capture exactly what the ghoul had reminded him of:

It had been one of the worst times he could remember, with his small patrol under fire and in retreat. They had been driven back to an old ruined guard tower and taken cover there from the hordes spilling out of Dol Guldûr in pursuit of them. The Elves knew the Nazgûl were amongst their attackers; they could hear the dreadful cold cries and the icy fear that pricked them and made their hands shake.

'It is only fear!' he kept shouting to his men. They said it to themselves, to each other.

He remembered how they had run up the stone steps of the old guard tower to get a vantage point to fire at the oncoming orcs. It was better to defend the tower and hope for rescue but there were too many even if the main company happened upon them and Legolas knew they were doomed.

Battle was raging around them and Lossar had just fallen, Galadhon pulling him out of the way of yet more arrows. In despair Legolas had looked out of the arrow loops to the North, hoping to see signs of Thalos' main company. What he had seen instead made his skin crawl and stomach turn; a huge black bat was stalking towards him on its black pinions, crawling up the wall. It clawed its way towards him easily, but its face was that of an Elf. Almost. Ears delicate and pointed, mouth twitching and leering, pointed fangs dripped with dark red blood…. He had cried out in horror and stumbled back at first, thinking it must be Thuringwethil, Morgoth's vampire. And in panic, he had fired arrow after arrow into the horrid thing and not one seemed to stop it for it kept on coming. Only the silver horns of Laersul's company finding them at their last gasp had driven the thing off…

Now, as he lay on the narrow iron bed, he wondered if this ghoul was not the same…And Ioralas' body had no blood left in it. The usual bruising where blood had pooled in a dead body was absent, and the skin was unnaturally white. Had Ioralas been killed by this ghoul? And would it kill again?

He swung his feet to the ground and quickly splashed his face and body with cold water and sniffed the scented soap. Like they had in Imladris. He pulled on one of his linen shirts and breeches, grabbed his boots and tucked them under one arm, scooped up his weapons and was already strapping on his quiver and harness, knives, bow, vambraces as he clattered down the stairs. Then he went back and grabbed the knife the ghoul had thrown and stuffed it into his quiver.

Pippin was just serving breakfast and the other hobbits were sitting at the table. They all looked up as he burst in.

'Morning Legolas,' said Pippin brightly. 'Just in time. Glaurung, or Lobelia as Frodo is calling her, has just helped herself to the best of the bacon but there is plenty here. Come and sit down.'

Briefly he thought that they must sit at one long meal with brief interludes for pipeweed. 'I have to see Aragorn,' he said. 'It is a matter of urgency.'

'Legolas, we have already sent a message to Aragorn about Ioralas. You can sit and eat with us. Please.' Frodo looked at him appealing. Legolas paused. He could never really ignore anything Frodo asked. 'And then one of us will go with you,' Frodo added as if that would make it even more attractive.

'I do not think I should delay,' he said.

Pippin put his head on one side and asked, 'What is going on, Legolas? You found poor Ioralas' body. Isn't that an end to it? He fell off the bridge. Can you not just spare us a few minutes to tell us what is going on?'

Legolas gave in and sat between Frodo and Merry. He looked at Pippin as Pippin spooned bacon, eggs, mushrooms and fried potatoes onto a plate for him.

'Finding Ioralas' body is not the end of it at all,' said Legolas grimly. 'I do not believe he simply fell off that bridge. I think he was either pushed, or so frightened that he jumped.' He ate as he talked and realised how hungry he was. It made him feel better, more real. He told them of the ghoul he had pursued across the city and which had eluded him.

'If it can escape you, Legolas,' said Pippin, 'I do not think it can be human.' He shivered as he spoke. 'What you say makes me think of the Ringwraiths,' he said and the other hobbits nodded in agreement.

'I do not wish to frighten you, but be careful and stay together,' said Legolas. 'I am not convinced that the world is rid of Sauron's evil.'

'It would be strange if it were,' said Frodo sadly. 'But you must not go alone either, Legolas. Take Merry with you so you have someone. We will be sure to tell Gimli and Gandalf where you are and what you have told us.'

Legolas considered for a moment and then shook his head briefly. 'It did throw a knife at me,' he said thoughtfully and the hobbits exclaimed in shock. 'No,' he said, hushing their cries. 'I think whatever it is, it wants me alive. It wanted me to find Ioralas,' he realised. 'It stopped throwing stones at me only when I saw the body.' He frowned. 'That makes no sense at all.'

0o0o


	21. Chapter 21 The Theft

Beta: Anarithilen.

Thank you my dear freddie who is still kind enough to review. I do appreciate it.

Translations:

Alamgamêsh: Khuzdul of the Ered Luin dialect meaning outsider, outcast, one who does not mine, forge or smith. It implies 'a wrong 'un'.

Zigur: Adunaic for Wizard.

Chapter 21: Theft

The Palace was in an uproar when Gimli followed Gandalf into the council chamber. Guards clattered past them, spears in their hands and their faces anxious. Gimli exchanged a frightened look with Gandalf, suddenly fearful for Aragorn. A liveried servant looked intensely relieved when he saw Gandalf.

'My lords.' The servant bowed but allowed them no time to ask questions. 'The King is in here.'

Gimli heard those words with intense relief; Aragorn was well. He was alive. He was King. He was in there. In the end, that was all that mattered to Gimli.

The servant ushered them speedily into Aragorn's inner council room. Faramir was there, and several of his lords, all of whom showed fatigue and agitation. The old Man, Heredir, did not sit but stood staring out of the long glass doors. He turned rheumy eyes upon them as they entered and seemed about to speak but Aragorn leapt to his feet at their arrival.

'Gandalf! Gimli!' His relief was undisguised. 'Your arrival is very timely.' He hastened towards them. 'You have heard the news?' he asked, pulling up chairs for first Gandalf and then Gimli.

Gimli saw with concern that Faramir was there too and rose to his feet to greet them. His face though was very pale and his mouth trembled a little. Gimli remembered that it was not long since Faramir had almost died at the hand of his own father in the very crypt from which he had come in such a hurry with Gandalf. Clearly not only had the Mirror been stolen but something else had happened and was significant enough to warrant the King to call for his council.

A nasty feeling was creeping over Gimli. He looked around the council table at the assembled lords, some of whom he knew from the Black Gate and others who had joined Aragorn on the Field of Cormallen on his return. Heredir was one of those, but Duinhir, Lord of the Blackroot Vale, had fought alongside Gimli at one point at the Black Gates. He nodded at Gimli in acknowledgement, but he did not smile.

'What has happened?' Gimli asked, looking around at the concerned faces. Through the open windows there was the clatter of horses' hooves and shouting as the Men they had passed climbed into saddles and hoisted spears and lances.

'It is the prisoner, Kustîg,' Faramir said, but he did not meet Gimli's gaze. 'The Easterling chief who would not sue for peace but maintains that Sauron is wronged.'

'Oh, him,' said Gimli with relief. Frankly he could not care less if the Man lived or died and secretly thought it would have been better if he had died in some sort of easily explained away accident that left another more amenable Man free to take his place. Far more important was the news that he and Gandalf brought of the Mirror's theft and the ghoul that Legolas had pursued through the city. He craned his neck; Legolas was not there. But he would surely be soon.

He opened his mouth to speak when Faramir said, 'He has escaped.'

'Oh.' Gimli screwed up his face in understanding. Better that the Easterling had died than escape, but not the end of the world that one would think, looking at these glum faces. 'Not good. Has he been caught yet?'

At this, Faramir grew even more agitated and Gimli recalled that the Tower Guard was under Faramir's command. 'No. We think he is on his way to Pelargir and may even now be boarding a ship to Umbar. We cannot reach him there.'

'He must have had help,' said Heredir. He flung an accusing gaze around the room and settled on one of the advisors in particular; Gimli could not remember all their names but the Man returned Heredir's look with a cool gaze of his own. There was something Gimli found a little repellent about the advisor. Uncanny. He felt his beard curl slightly and his chest hair bristle, a sure sign that this Man was an _alamgamêsh_.

'The guard was found drugged,' said the advisor and now that he spoke, there was more animation in his face and suddenly Gimli wanted to listen. 'Someone must have helped him. He could not have escaped alone.' The Man cast an apologetic look at Faramir. 'The Watch did not see anything. Perhaps they were preoccupied with the other news of the discovery of their comrade's body.' He spread his hands on the table and Gimli saw that he wore black velvet gloves and over the gloves upon one finger was a ring. Old gold. A dull red jewel. Gimli squinted, trying to recognise what kind of jewel it was. Not a garnet or ruby, he thought. Carnelian perhaps? He wondered why the Man wore gloves when it was early Summer and the evenings warm and balmy. The advisor paused and then said carefully, 'Unless the two are somehow connected…There are rumours abroad about how the guard was found. I think the term is exsanguinated – drained of blood.'

At this, Gandalf slowly rose to his feet. Gimli felt the tension in the room ratchet up and saw how every Man present now looked towards the Wizard.

'Aragorn,' Gandalf said with great heaviness in his voice. 'We need to take further council, you and I. Faramir too. The news that I bring may have some bearing upon this. Let us withdraw to some more private place and take council.'

Aragorn looked alarmed for a moment and glanced around at these Men who were his closest advisors. But Faramir was already on his feet. 'Come then. If there is yet more bad news, it will not wait.' He turned to the waiting council. 'Forgive us, my lords. I will bring the King's will when we have understood the nature of all that has happened.'

Gimli was a little surprised at the sudden assurance from Faramir when moments ago he had seemed so distraught; it seemed he had suddenly found command. It seemed Aragorn was a little taken aback too for he glanced across at Faramir. But he said nothing, after all, Faramir had been in charge of the city since his father's death. It was natural for him to slip into command now and again.

The advisor with the ring spoke hastily, reassuringly. 'My lords, let us allow the White Wizard to take council with our King. We have work to do. The posse is even now pursuing the escaped prisoner and there is little we can do here except search for he who betrayed us.' He rose to his feet and began gathering up his own papers. 'With your permission, your majesty, lord Faramir, I will convene an investigation. Perhaps those who were looking into the disappearance of the Tower Guard.'

'Yes. Do that. Beregond was leading that enquiry, I think.' Aragorn nodded gratefully. 'Thank you, Bearos. We need a cool head in this…' He opened his hands as if unable to find the word to describe the situation they found themselves in. 'I am grateful.'

Of course. That was the Man, Bearos. Gimli frowned; there was something he was supposed to remember about him. But his thoughts slid over each other and he could not quite grasp them. Behind him, the old Lord Heredir snorted in derision but no one said anything for all rose as the King, his Steward and closest friend, Gandalf, left.

Faramir clasped Bearos' shoulder in gratitude as he followed Aragorn. But Gimli stayed solidly in his seat for he wanted to hear what would be said here instead.

Young Nardol of Lossarnach, Forlong's son, sat in the seat next to Gimli and leaned over now and muttered to the dwarf, 'More action, less talk would have apprehended the fellow an hour ago when it was discovered he was gone. They have spent an Age arguing amongst themselves.'

Gimli grunted. The boy was headstrong and normally Imrahil was there to restrain him for he and Forlong had been old friends, but Gimli liked the boy's forthright manner; as much like a Khazâd as a Man could be, he thought approvingly.

Duinhir, spoke now. He leaned forwards, one arm on the table and shook his head. 'It bodes poorly, my lords, if Kustîg should make it to Umbar.'

'Indeed. He will rally the remnants of Sauron's army, no matter how small. He will lead another assault upon Osgiliath and seek to take it.' The lord who spoke was tall and dark with a look of Boromir about him. Gimli could not remember his name either though the Man had fought at the Morannon too, and bravely. Gimli remembered him throwing himself in the path of a troll so that Aragorn might escape harm.

'And does that frighten you, Hirluin?' said Nardol recklessly.

Ah, thought Gimli. That was his name; Hirluin.

'Yes, it frightens me,' Hirluin replied to Nardol honestly. 'And if you had fought at the Morannon and seen yourself the black tide of hatred that fell upon us, it would frighten you too. But your father fell before those gates so I forgive you your impetuosity and ignorance for you were not there and I will assume that you have lost the sense you were born with.'

Nardol started to rise to his feet and protest, but Angbor pulled him back down. 'When you have stood before the Black Gate, or at least whetted your sword on the enemies of Gondor, then you can challenge a warrior like Hirluin, young buck,' he said firmly. 'For now, know your place and let the wise speak.'

'Leave him be. In spite of his untried youth, Nardol is still a lord here and entitled to speak.' Heredir turned and laid his hand on Nardol's shoulder. The veins of his hands were thick and blue, his skin translucent with age. But his hands still wielded a sword well and power even more accurately, heavily. 'Unlike some who sit here with less entitlement.' He slowly lowered himself into a chair opposite Gimli. His pale blue eyes settled for a moment upon the dwarf.

Gimli narrowed his eyes at the implied insult but Heredir was not looking at him as he spoke, Gimli realised, but at Bearos.

'Can't say I'm unhappy that we don't have to pay for that Easterling's food and drink,' Duinhir said. 'I dare say we'd have had to quietly get rid of him at some point.'

There were grunts of agreement at this.

Heredir tapped his cane on the marble floor as if for attention, and his pale blue eyes were rheumy but flinty with resolve and purpose. 'Damn shame he escaped under Faramir's watch. Poor boy has enough to worry about.' He leaned back in the chair. 'Beregond is a good man though. He will find our traitor.'

'I think the problem is not that Kustîg escaped under Faramir's watch, my lord,' said Angbor crossly. 'No one doubts Faramir. But Kustîg will foment rebellion and war in the East. He will not be alone in thinking that Sauron was a God, that he must be avenged.'

'And that another should be raised in his place,' added Bearos. 'That is indeed the true danger my lords. That we have defeated one beast only to have another raised in its place.' He smiled at them and Gimli frowned, thinking that Legolas spoke against Bearos whenever his name was mentioned. Gimli thought him unfair to do so, sitting here and listening to such reason and calm.

'And yet, there is a traitor in our midst and he must be found.' Bearos tapped his velvet-clad finger on the polished table thoughtfully and then lifted his strange eyes and met first Gimli's, and then his gaze drifted around the table.

'I know not how you come to be at this council,' Heredir said. He leaned back in his chair and fixed his rheumy blue eyes upon the Man. 'You have no lands, no titles. You are no lord. At best a merchant.'

There was an uncomfortable silence; the gallant and brave Hirluin looked appalled and even Nardol shifted uncomfortably.

'And here is the King himself, also but lately come and without lands or titles.' Bearos laughed once and something in it chilled Gimli. He saw the other lords felt it too.

But Heredir met the Man's eye boldly and with great hostility. 'The King has the blood of Elendil in his veins,' the old man said coldly. 'He is not some peasant just come down from the mountains.'

There was silence. Gimli glanced from one Man to the other, surprised at Heredir's support for Aragorn - for he had been heard to speak in support of Denethor - and embarrassed for Bearos. But as he looked at Bearos, he saw how the Man's eyes narrowed and glittered as they rested upon Heredir, and for a moment, it seemed the shadows around Bearos deepened. The bones of his face seemed to shift and elongate.

Heredir's mouth was a narrow line, lips pressed together. Gimli expected Bearos to come back at Heredir, to make some protest about his parentage, his wealth, that he had won his wealth through his own hard work and good fortune, not been given it by his father. But Bearos said nothing for a moment. He took off his velvet glove and wiped his mouth with his hand. His nails were broken, perhaps bitten to the quick, wondered Gimli for the tips were raw and red. It was odd but only Gimli was looking.

At last, Bearos spoke. 'Well, my lords,' he said with apparently iron calm. 'We are all about the King's work whatever our parentage.' He smiled tightly. 'Let us try to work together instead of pulling in different directions.' He shifted a glance towards the door where Aragorn had gone.

Heredir shoved the chair away with a derisive sneer and, leaning on his cane, he said to Bearos, 'Do not think to fool me the way you have fooled all these others.' He leaned closer to Bearos. 'I can smell you.' He wrinkled up his nose. 'You smell of Mordor.'

Bearos rose to his feet with cool dignity. 'I am sorry that I offend you so with my humble birth, Lord Heredir, but you were right the first time; I am merely a peasant come down from the mountains and who made his own luck. I have never been to Mordor. I did not march with the King. I did not even know there was a battle until recently. The news gets to us slowly over the Mindolluin.' He paused and took a breath as if steadying himself, but in fact Gimli thought he was perfectly cold as he spoke.

'That the King has chosen to elevate me,' the Man continued, 'because of the work I have done for veteran soldiers and widows rather than my father having simply owned a lot of land, grabbing it from peasants too poor and weak to stop him, is HIS decision. I never sought it, nor did I expect it.' He opened his hands as if showing there was nothing up his sleeves. A merchant's trait, Gimli recognised from the Ered Luin and Esgaroth. 'I cannot think of anything I have done to earn your enmity, Lord Heredir. But the King wills that I should sit here.' He said the last words so firmly that Gimli felt he should cheer, but he could not.

'My lords,' Duinhir appealed to them both. 'To bicker like this amongst ourselves is to give the enemy succour.'

There was a murmur of agreement from some of the others and Heredir said no more but he glared at Bearos and muttering with disapproval, Heredir turned at last and stumped off, throwing the tall doors open and griping at the guard as he passed. 'You want to watch that one,' he said. 'There is the taint of evil on him.'

Bearos remained where he was, an expression of hurt and sadness on his face. He glanced across to where Gimli still sat and smiled slightly. 'I will never be accepted,' he said. 'It is hard for the old ones to accept the new. But there will be much change now the King is come.' The chamber was emptying and soon only Bearos and Gimli remained.

'Give me stone to work with or iron and steel and I will build you a city. But the ways of Kings and their councillors are no matters for a hard-headed stone-cutter.' Gimli shrugged.

'I think you are anything but a mere stone-cutter, my lord Gimli. Whereas I truly am a simple farmer and hunter, and these more subtle matters are lost on me.' Bearos smiled and it seemed warm and genuine. Gimli felt almost churlish for having doubted him. Then the Man leaned forwards, business-like. 'My lord, I do not seek news which is not for me to know. Nor do I wish to compromise you in any way. But will you send word to your friends to join you perhaps?' He looked expectantly at Gimli. 'Surely they need to know what has happened here?'

Gimli had not intended to send word, for he would join the rest of the fellowship shortly and tell them. But of course Legolas would be waiting for news, Gimli realised. In fact, he was surprised the Elf wasn't there already and that meant he would be hopping from one foot to another like Pippin. And the Hobbits should know too that he and Gandalf were at least safe from this ghoul that Legolas had pursued into the House of the Dead. But he felt something nudge the corner of his mind; he should send a message, he thought. To Legolas at least, who would be waiting anxiously.

'There is paper here and ink. If you wish to write a note, I will send a messenger to deliver it.' Bearos bowed slightly and smiled again encouragingly. 'I have other matters to attend, I am sure you will understand, my lord?' He bowed again but it did not seem obsequious to Gimli, just polite, but he stumbled as he rose and winced. For a moment, the Man's mask seemed to have slipped and he looked in pain, like he had fallen from a great height or been thrown by his horse. When the Man stumbled into the door and leaned heavily on the door handle, Gimli half rose. 'Do you need help, master?'

'No, no. Thank you. I had a fall from my horse.' Bearos shot him a quick, tight smile before parting. 'I am not a good rider and it has left me a little shaken.'

Now he was alone, Gimli quickly scribbled a note to Legolas in his usual brusque fashion:

Legolas, things are afoot, he wrote. Better you had come quickly. Gimli.

A boy was loitering by the door and he charged him with taking the message and then went in search of Gandalf.

But as it happened, Legolas arrived soon after with Merry and Pippin in tow. When he arrived, he said he must have missed the message.

0o0o

Pippin sat on the edge of his seat in Aragorn's cosy study, the inner one where not many people were allowed. He swung his legs. Aragorn and Faramir had been sitting with Gandalf and Gimli and looking very glum when they arrived. Now Merry sat near the fire; although it was early summer he still felt cold sometimes. Legolas was standing near the window, as if he might leap out of it at any moment, Pippin thought. But he wouldn't, because Aragorn and Faramir were telling them about an escaped prisoner and Gimli and Gandalf were telling Aragorn about the stolen Mirror and Legolas was waiting to tell Aragorn about the ghoul.

It seemed that the escaped prisoner was someone important and had escaped at some point during the night- whether it was before or after Legolas had given chase to the ghoul was unclear for no one seemed clear. Pippin shuddered; the ghoul was a far more important issue to him than an escaped Easterling.

'The danger from Kustîg is real,' said Gandalf, 'but the danger from the Mirror is far greater.'

'That is my fear,' said Faramir glumly. 'Kustîg spoke of an artefact that had been taken from the tower or Minas Morgul,' he said. 'He knows about the Mirror.'

'What? How do you know this?' exclaimed Gandalf in shock. 'Who has told him of it?'

'No one,' Faramir protested. 'He was the one who spoke of it when Bearos was trying to negotiate a peace with him.'

'Well there you have your traitor.' Legolas' eyes pinned Faramir accusingly. 'And you gave him the opportunity to plan this with Kustîg! They have probably been plotting this for weeks.'

Pippin looked at Legolas in alarm; it was most unlike Legolas to be argumentative with anyone but Gimli and the Dwarf was very quiet. Merry flushed with anger at the accusation against Faramir but it was Aragorn who protested.

'That is unfair, Legolas. Faramir asked Bearos to negotiate with Kustîg because he is experienced in brokering deals. He bargained very successfully with Tarantine, the Lord of Umbar. And Bearos alone knows any of Kustîg's own tongue. He was more likely to be successful than anyone else.'

'I do not trust him.' Legolas slid a hand over the hilt of his knife as if to loosen it.

'He has done nothing to deserve your mistrust,' Aragorn said, meeting Legolas's stare with a challenge of his own.

'And yet I do not trust him,' Legolas repeated.

'Well that may be but Faramir only did what he had to,' Merry interrupted angrily. 'And we are no closer to solving our problem of the mirror or of Kustîg's release. It seems to me that if Kustîg has stolen the mirror, then at least it's out of Minas Tirith and if the ghoul has anything to do with the Mirror, then the ghoul is also no longer in the city.'

Merry's outburst seemed to have pricked everyone's conscience for Legolas stepped back and Aragorn let his gaze drop.

Aragorn sighed and looked at Gandalf for a moment, who only shrugged unhelpfully. 'Tell me again about this ghoul,' he said. 'You must have seen where it went.'

Pippin cringed and looked briefly over towards Legolas, but he had that inscrutable mask that he sometimes wore when he was really angry, or being ignored, usually by Aragorn, or riled by Gimli. But Gimli must have realised too for he said quickly, 'Neither Gandalf nor I saw it and the sentries had seen nothing.'

Legolas said tightly, ''I do not know where it went. It had scaled the bridge before I could get there.' Pippin could almost hear him saying to himself behind his teeth, ' _and I suppose you think I have failed in my trust, do you?'_ for that had been hurled at Aragorn several times during the Quest, and not always by Legolas. Sometimes Gimli said it on Legolas' behalf; Pippin thought this might be one of those times because he saw Gimli chewing his beard.

Suddenly Legolas drew a dagger from his boot and slid it across the table where it came to rest near Gandalf, glinting in the morning sunlight. 'The ghoul threw this at me.' Pippin nearly cried aloud for Legolas had said nothing of that to the Hobbits at breakfast. Sam would have been most upset.

Gandalf pushed it about a bit with his staff and looked at it as if it was a nasty smell. 'It looks like an ordinary dagger to me,' he said. 'What is the sigil on the hilt?'

But Faramir was white. He reached out and pulled it towards him. He picked it up and looked at it wonderingly. 'This is mine,' he said. 'See, R,ND,R is the device of the Stewards. And it has here the three five-pointed stars. My father gave it to me.'

A silence fell upon them. Pippin looked away, not wanting to meet Faramir's gaze.

'You must have lost it,' Merry said loyally.

'But how did it come into the ghoul's possession? Do you make a habit of throwing it around and forgetting where you left it?' asked Gimli bluntly.

Faramir flushed and Merry made a noise of outrage. 'I assure you, lord Gimli, I did not know it was missing. It is always in my chamber though I do not know when it was taken.'

Legolas said nothing but Pippin saw that he was watching Faramir closely and Pippin thought that neither Legolas nor Gimli knew Faramir as he and Merry did or they would not suspect him. But they had seen how Boromir behaved at times towards Aragorn and it was love for Aragorn that made them wary. There were those pilgrimages too, to Denethor's tomb. He shook his head silently; it was supposed to be easier in the time of peace, but it was not.

Faramir looked up at Aragorn distraught and then turned to Legolas. 'I do not know how this came to be lost.' He rose to his feet in agitation, running his hands through his hair. 'Your majesty, I have failed you again.' He came before Aragorn and sank to one knee. 'What can I say? It is my Watch that has failed to keep the prisoner, Kustîg. A posse has been despatched to pursue him but I will go out myself and search for this ghoul and ensure that if it not gone from the city with this mirror, that it will harm no more of our people.'

A chorus of voices drowned him out but Gandalf rapped his staff on the marble floor irritably. 'This ghoul is not a Man,' Gandalf interrupted everyone. 'It will evade you, Faramir. Do you think you can catch it when Legolas could not?'

'This ghoul though, is surely a more immediate threat to the city than any army Kustîg might raise?' Aragorn shoved his chair back and pushed himself to his feet in agitation. 'If an Elf cannot catch it, who can?'

Gandalf sighed heavily. 'I am convinced the ghoul is connected with the Mirror and manifestation of this ghoul is proof that someone knows of it, and knows how to use it. In which case, I fear we will face not just an army of Easterlings, disappointed with peace and looking for revenge. I fear a much greater enemy will be raised.'

'Do you mean Sauron can be brought back?' Pippin asked, eyes wide.

'No, I do not, Peregrine Took. I mean something much older.' Gandalf suddenly looked very old and tired. 'I thought my work was done. But this may be beyond any of you.'

Pippin looked at Merry. This was what Gandalf had said when they faced the Balrog in Moria. And there Gandalf had fallen. Pippin did not think he could bear it if all this had been for nothing. 'Older doesn't mean worse,' he said rather desperately and Gandalf must have realised that Pippin was afraid because his face softened.

'Not always. But in this case, I am rather afraid that it does.'

Wearily, he rose to his feet and gathered his robes about him. 'Gimli, I need you once again it seems, if you are content to cling to a Wizard instead of an Elf.'

'If you promise not to drop me,' Gimli replied gamely and before either Legolas or Aragorn could protest, for both had opened their mouths to speak, Gandalf said firmly, 'Shadowfax cannot take all of you and Aragorn, you are needed here. And Legolas, should you look into the Mirror, I fear what will come.'

'What about Merry and me?' Pippin cried but Gandalf looked tenderly at him.

'Frodo and Sam need you both.' And it was enough to silence Pippin for he knew it was true.

'Come Gimli,' Gandalf said. 'Let us away. If we leave now Shadowfax will at least catch the posse and perchance overtake Kustîg himself.'

0o0o0o0

Bearos observed the Wizard and Dwarf from a narrow window in the small office he had been given as an advisor to the King. The great white horse charged out of the courtyard in an overly dramatic flurry with the dwarf clinging to the Wizard's white robes. He cursed silently; he had not expected that the dwarf would go with the Wizard. It meant the message that was carefully folded in his pocket was useless. It had cost him a copper coin for the messenger boy to give it up. Bearos would never have known to use those words. And he did not think that now he could have forged the writing, so angular and spiked. It had been too easy but now the note was useless. He was about to crumple it in his fist but stopped; it was a sort of treasure. Hoard it now, use it later. And it had given him ideas. Far easier to pilfer scraps of writing from the Steward, and it would serve his purpose better.

He turned his attention now to Faramir and watched how the King stood close to his steward as if to reassure him. He guessed the dagger had been revealed as Faramir's. It had been pure luck that he had manged to steal that from Faramir's own chamber. Now a sequence of events was in place and already its momentum was building; rumours of Ioralas' death; and a Beast that had sucked the blood from the Man were already flying around the city. He had made sure too that there was a subtle sense that somehow Faramir was to be blamed for letting it happen. And now there was a traitor who had helped the prisoner, Kustîg, to escape. The Wizard was out of the way and Faramir was here, feeling vulnerable. And the old guard, Denethor's loyal families, were already questioning the Usurper. If it seemed that Faramir was taking the blame for all this, it would stoke their resentment further.

Gleefully Bearos rubbed his forefinger over the smooth gemstone in the Ring. All was in place and the pieces set. He watched the Usurper stand close to Faramir, speaking quietly. And there was the Elf, Legolas Thranduillion, standing a little apart from the others watching the Wizard and Dwarf long after they had disappeared. A little forlorn perhaps? Alone? Isolated?

He tapped a forefinger on the window frame thoughtfully, staring out at the Elf. Those two Hobbits, hateful stunted creatures, had already gone back inside and the Usurper – the False King - was guiding Faramir up the stone steps. Slowly the Elf followed, but Bearos stayed looking out of the window, lost in thought.

Suddenly someone looked up from the almost empty courtyard, staring straight at him. That wicked old Man, Heredir.

Bearos stepped back into the shadows but too late, Heredir had seen him. He cursed and turned furiously away, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Always Heredir insulted him, sneered at him. Time he died. He was old and infirm. It should be easy.

0o0

The house was quiet when Bearos returned for he had dismissed the servants, saying his wife had returned to their farm for the summer, taking the children to give them space to play.

It was not true.

He wanted peace, or rather, he wanted no one around to observe or question. He had engaged two new men instead; Maltök and Tyresis. They were strong, and completely bespelled now with hardly a will of their own. They obeyed without question and ignored what he wanted them to. Too, they were strong enough to excavate beneath the house, digging through the bedrock of the city and hewing rough tunnels, driven at first by greed and fear, but now empty of all Will but the Ring's.

He could hear sounds upstairs in the Solar and he took long, silent steps and paused outside the room, pressing his ear against the closed door. His wife and daughter were in there, sewing, whispering. They did not expect him home yet. Grinning horribly, he pulled off his velvet gloves and scrabbled his nails at the door and then stopped, listening again. They had ceased their careful whisperings and were silent. He imagined them both turned towards the door, their faces frozen in terror that he had returned. He pressed his nose against the door, he could smell their fear, sniffed at it, sucked it into himself. A thin smile stretched over his lips and he scrabbled again with his nails. He heard them whisper frantically to each other and the girl scuttled away, sent up the stairs at the far end of the room by her mother. And then the woman's voice quavered.

'Is that you my dear?'

She did not mean it. He was no longer her dear anything. She hated him, was terrified of him. He laughed softly, just enough for her to hear.

'Bearas?'

It annoyed him that she alone still called him that. He felt a rage begin in his chest and wanted to throw open the door and tear into her…But instead, a greater revenge would be quiet. Silence. He pressed against the door again, listening to her panicked breathing, her heart thumping in her chest. She would be more afraid that it was him standing there than if it were a thief, he thought amused.

Quietly, he crept away, leaving her in fear to wonder if she should just open the door a tiny crack and peer out, or not. In case it was him and he suddenly leapt out at her, made her scream and run in fear.

Almost he turned back for the delight in tormenting her but he heard the baby cry and instead, swerved towards the nursery door.

It was unlocked, unattended. She was not usually so careless.

He was fast, faster than his wife who had not heard yet and he scooped up the frail bundle of bones and blood. He felt his lips stretch over his teeth and looked down.

The tiny bundle squirmed in his arms and began to wail – a thin reedy noise that raised the predator in him. He bent over the child.

He opened his hot red mouth wide, teeth gleamed.

No! No! What was still Bearas screamed from deep within. It was like he was looking through a glass tunnel and everything was bent and distorted and he could not get out for it twisted and turned and rolled him back down. At the other end of the glass, where the world was, and his children, his wife, was the Beast and it turned and snarled at him.

Marinel! He tried to scream to his wife. I am in here! Gerda!

But they could not hear him for the snarling of the Beast that kept him trapped and that paced and sneered at him whenever he screamed. It gnawed on his bones, tore at his sinews and heart and his skin could not contain It.

The tiny bundle squirmed again and its crying grew louder. And that was enough. He fought his way along the glass, digging his feet and hands against the smooth, slippery glass and clawed his way along it and burst out, thrust the Beast away, his baby. The longed for, beloved baby! He dropped it back into its cot and tore himself away. He felt hot tears wet his cheeks; the neck of his tunic was soaked with them. The squalling wail pursued him and he stumbled out, hearing the scrape of a chair and muffled cry from his wife as she realised he had been there and the baby was crying.

He fled. Down the stairs, down into the cellars. It was all he could do before the Beast burst his body and he became that…thing again.

Trembling, he thrust the iron key into the locked door, hidden in the deep cellar of the house and disguised as the back of a cupboard. He closed it and locked it behind him, leaning against the heavy boards before crying aloud.

He was exhausted. The ends of his fingertips were raw and his nails broken as if he had been clawing at rocks. He had hidden them with gloves but knew it looked strange. And he was gaunt and pale, so pale! His hunger could not be abated. He ate so much meat! He wept with the need to eat, raw and bloody. He had dismissed the cook and his wife cooked for herself and the girl. He had the Man, Maltök, bring carcasses from the butcher every day and Bearos would have torn the bloody meat from the bones if he could. He ate in private now for he could not bear to be seen.

Now he limped down the newly excavated steps that led in secret ways beneath the city, joining the cellar of his house to the catacombs deep beneath the city. The tunnel was not smooth or wide, but rough, barely enough for him to squeeze through. He emerged into the long forgotten catacombs, delved before the great sombre mausoleum that was the House of the Dead was raised to protect the bones of Kings and Stewards. During the first siege of Minas Tirith when Men could not bury the dead outside the city walls, they laid these ancient bones on shelves dug in the rock, and the catacombs led to the crypt of the Kings. A secret. Long forgotten. He did not know how he knew. It did not matter and he did not care.

He limped. His muscles were weak and sinews stretched from the long chase across the city, pursued by the Elf the previous eve. He felt like it was he who had been thrown onto rocks from a cliff, not Ioralas.

He had always had a wiry strength that came from living in the Mountains, hunting and farming. It was no great feat to cast the body onto the rocks below the bridge…After he had slashed the guard's throat. And then, spread the blood over the copper-coated surface of the Mirror.

An iron door, heavy and thick, was set deeply into the rock. It was lined with lead and an inner door, an iron grille added a second layer. The doors he had had made in the forge at the barracks. It amused him that he was doing this right under Faramir's nose, Beregond's careful eyes. He had brought it here himself, set it easily upon the hinges he had driven into the rock himself with his supernatural strength.

The door swung open easily at the turn of the iron key, and he inspected the thickness of it with pleased amusement. Yes- when it was closed no sound would escape. Testing again the strength of the iron bars of the grille, he smiled. Yes. This would be sufficient.

Inside was a room, the size of a cell. Pitch dark pressed against him but he could see easily in the dark now, one of the many benefits of the Ring. He pulled on the chains that he had driven into the rock wall himself, and ran through a ring driven high into the ceiling. They did not budge. No one could escape this. Shackles hung from the chain that would lock about the wrist and then pull a captive up so he strained, but could not escape.

A lure.

Something shimmered and moved at the back of the cell.

He stepped into the space before the Mirror and beheld his own face swimming in the Glass. Long and thin. Eyes so dark they were almost black.

The Zigur had not thought to look for the Mirror, he congratulated himself. So intent had the Zigur been on telling the Usurper, Isildur's heir of its loss, that he and the Dwarf had almost run from there in their haste to join the Usurper's council where Bearos himself had been waiting to plant the idea that the Mirror had been stolen by Kustîg.

Kustîg's escape had not been so easy to arrange as the theft of the Glass, he thought. That had taken sorcery and blood. But the Easterling had recognised the Ring as soon as he set eyes upon it and knelt in awe and gratitude. He knew his Master.

Bearos liked that. The recognition. Soon his Brethren would join him.

He stepped forwards and pressed his hands against the Glass. The bones of his hands had elongated like his face, and now it seemed that he looked into a pool in a twilit forest, a patch of daylight in the Night. In the pool his own face reflected. Swam. Rippled. Ghoulish. His lips pulled back in a sort of smile that should have made his blood run cold. And yet his blood was surging and raging through his veins, and his grin pulled his mouth back and showed his long teeth.

 _Not long. This body will not serve for long._

 _It does not need to._

No. Only a little longer will do and he would have all he needed. In his hands was a message written by Gimli Gloinsson the Dwarf, the Naugrim, the Stunted people. The words written on the parchment summoned the Elf but it did not say where and why. In the Glass he watched his face smile and lick its lips.

But for now, he needed blood. Any blood. He needed to be strong to meet the Elf. The Glass needed it, was as hungry as he.

Now the darkness closed about him warmly, embracing him and he felt the Ring, for it had become All to him, wrapping itself around his finger and then coiling about his hand, wrist and arm. It slid its dark tenderness about his waist and shoulders and neck and head and squeezed, penetrating his mouth and ears and nose and everything. It filled him, filled him, filled him more so he grew, enlarged, every organ, his lungs and heart and chest and brain and eyes and tongue, and he took a huge breath that filled his engorged breast.

He wanted to roar.

Throwing open the iron grille, he hurled himself from the cell. His feet pounded the stone and he ran so fleetly, like he had last night, muscles pounding, sinews stretching beyond what was human, bones cracking and twisting into something he was not. His blood pounded and thrashed in his veins as if it wanted to escape. He felt the Thing in him, the Beast, writhing for release and he shook his head from side to side as if he might shake free from this skeleton, this skin and let the muscles in him expand as they wanted.

Yes! The Ring urged him. Do it! Do it now!

From deep inside, Bearas screamed. His weak fingers scrabbled at the sides of the Pit in which he was trapped but he sank only deeper as the Beast that had possessed him looked with narrow yellow eyes.

No! No!

Deep inside the Pit, Bearas felt himself slipping deeper, falling away; he was staring up through a long tunnel of polished Glass. Then he was gone. Completely. The Beast gnawed at his bloody bones as it loped easily through the crypt, passed the silent effigies of long dead Kings and thought about the old Man who hated him, Heredir.

0o0o

Next chapter: Elrohir arrives in Lothlorien where there is a reunion with Glorfindel, Erestor and Tindómion. But Legolas is very much alone in Minas Tirith right now. Anyone else worried?!


	22. Chapter 22 Lothlorien

This is especially for Nako, who just wants more of Elrohir: ' I FEED UPON HIS MISFORTUNES... and it's fun to see him struggle to get to the point of giving up and accepting his fate.' Poor Elrohir. But actually, this chapter is a little interlude really, before the fun really starts. So enjoy the peace and kindness in this. Oh, and the slashy fantasy – thought you might be feeling deprived.

Ch 22: Lothlorien

Grumpy, tired and wishing he didn't have relatives, Elrohir threw himself on the wide bed in the talan. He and Elladan had just arrived, they were both tired and he was damned if he was going to meet his grandmother and father in a formal setting that required him to be polite. He hated coming here. If it were not for Arwen, he would not have come. Elladan, as usual, had been despatched to give greetings to the various relations they should both have greeted but Elladan knew when to push and when to give way. 'I will tell them your wound pains you a little and you must rest,' he said lightly.

'Do not tell them that!' Elrohir protested. 'They will all want to heal me.'

'Very well, I will tell them that you are tired and grumpy.' Elladan smiled slightly.

'Do that.'

Elladan had given him a look that was both indulgent and irritated. But he had gone and Elrohir had some peace before he had to present himself to his family, friends, for he knew that Glorfindel would be here, and he hoped too, Tindómion.

But Tindómion brought issues and images that Elrohir did not want to confront. He pushed them away now.

Elrohir stretched out on the bed, wanting to sleep, wishing Legolas were there to tease and laugh away his irritation. But all thoughts of Legolas banished his bad mood and he imagined that Legolas was indeed here, and he reached out to stroke an imaginary pale gold hair from Legolas' beautiful face. Still astonished at himself, Elrohir thought about how he felt about Legolas. He loved the Woodelf with a tenderness he had never in his long life experienced before; it was protective and tender and affectionate and made his heart feel like it would burst from his chest. He wanted to shout and sing and he could not contain it. He found himself laughing at himself for pure joy in spite of himself. He was in love. In love! And with a warrior who was in every way his equal and more, better by far than his own self. Better in every way; stronger, more noble, impossibly beautiful, impossibly masculine. A warrior who surpassed every warrior Elrohir had ever known…

He laughed again, at himself, his rapture, knowing that he was blinded by love. And happier for it than he had ever been in his life since his mother had been lost… Yes. Even that seemed less traumatic, for Legolas had made it…not less, but pointed out his own crime for what it was.*

And in spite of his perjured and sinful self, Legolas loved him back. He stroked his own hand over his hair, enjoying the feel of it, enjoying the sensation of silk.

Legolas made Elrohir feel complete. Legolas accepted him in a way that not even Elladan did. His lust and desire, even the violent passion of it, Legolas accepted as almost his due, as normal, as natural as day.

The last time they had slept together before Elrohir left, they had left marks on each other that he would be ashamed to see on another, seeing it as evidence of his depravity and violent lust, but Legolas did not care, matching Elrohir in his lust. He was as wild and unrestrained as Elrohir needed him to be. It did not seem to Elrohir that Legolas would refuse anything. In fact, he embraced it, seemed to lead Elrohir further and further into what he had seen before as depravity. With Legolas, it did not seem to be. It felt natural, exciting. He felt his cock stiffening at the thought of it. And kicked off the sheets on the bed, he could not help it. The memory of Legolas in wild abandoned lust was too much and he almost came just letting his hands drift over his own skin, flicking over the end of his cock deliciously.

He pulled himself back, wanting to enjoy this. There would be questions and sly looks enough when he joined Elladan and Arwen, but for the moment, he had privacy.

He thought about that last night when he had fucked Legolas wildly, biting at his shoulder and Legolas had squirmed in ecstasy as he plunged into Legolas, pounding his battle-hardened, athletic body, knowing Legolas could take it, wanted it. Elrohir thought of that now as he played with himself, letting his head fall back into the pillow as it had when Legolas, with a teasing, wicked smile, had pulled away and crawled down Elrohir's body until his hot mouth had closed over Elrohir's cock.

He loved the wantonness of his beloved, the pleasure he took in sex. He thought of the way Legolas had stretched his hands above his head, clasping the headboard like he was bound, and arching his body; the candlelight had gleamed on his skin, on the wild yára-carmë, the swirl of colour that coiled about his lean body, snaked about his hips and thigh…Elrohir had tangled his fingers in the wheat-pale hair and dragged Legolas' head back, muffled the cries of ecstasy with his own mouth. He could hardly breathe for the passion, pressing his mouth, forcing his tongue, pushing open that lovely generous mouth as Legolas gasped and rose to meet him and Elrohir slammed his hands back down. That violence and strength had Legolas moaning in desire and delicious lust.

Oh Eru, Elrohir's hands on himself moved slowly, tantalising himself with the images of Legolas as he writhed, pinned fast beneath Elrohir's own heavy weight, holding the Woodelf fast as he plunged into the hot, tight body, so tight he had to force himself harder and harder, and Legolas had begged him to punish and subdue him.

It had taken Elrohir aback, and aroused him in equal measure but Legolas had looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes, lost in desire and stretched himself again, writhing beneath Elrohir so his muscles slid beneath his skin, gleaming with sweat that Elrohir found unbearably erotic.

'You submitted to me,' Legolas had murmured. 'And you struggled with it. Now subdue me. I will submit to you.'

It undid them both and Elrohir could not remember when he had made those marks on Legolas' skin, the bruises and welts… He ejaculated hard, spurting over his belly, hot white streams jetting over his own skin.

He lay for a moment, breathing hard, heart pounding.

Better, he thought, rising and padding over to a ewer of water and pouring it into a silver bowl. He washed himself off and pulled long suitable robes over his nakedness, and then stood for a moment looking out over the city.

Lights threaded through the huge mallorns, silvery in the twilight that always seemed to linger in this forest. Strange songs weaved their way through the trees and he paused for a while to lean against the trunk of a tree nearby and listen to the singing. In the huge trees that crowded upon the hill of Caras Galadhon, were the palatial talans of the Lord and Lady, and of course their guests. He knew which talan was reserved for Elrond for it was close by and he looked up to the delicate rope pathways and balconies that strung lightly between the talans and trees.

He saw Arwen before she saw him; she leaned her elbow on a balcony along the walkway to his right and her cheek rested upon her hand. Her long dark hair fell over her shoulder and the strange half-light of Lothlorien gleamed silver lights in her hair. He smiled and made his way quietly towards her.

'Moro!' she cried in delight at seeing him. He picked her up and swung her round, kissed the top of her head and she leaned against him. 'You are happy!' she said in surprise.

'I am seeing you marry Aragorn,' he said but he realised she was right, he was happy.

'More than that,' she said shrewdly. Not for nothing was she daughter of Elrond and granddaughter of Galadriel. 'What has happened?' She stared at him and then frowned as if in disbelief. 'Moro, you are…different somehow. You look…Are you in love?' she asked in even greater astonishment.

He laughed. 'I am not grumpy and boorish so I must be in love?' He glanced at her and saw that she was not so easily duped. 'You will see soon,' he confessed. 'But I beg you keep it secret.'

She swung round to stand in front of him, laughing and gasping. 'I cannot believe it! Who has won the stony heart of Elrohir Elrondion? Who has caught the eye of He who will not be swayed, will not love, will not…'

'Hush,' he said gently. 'I am not that man.'

'Not anymore, clearly.' She pulled his arm, her face shining with delight. 'Tell me! I am so pleased for you my dearest Morók! I cannot tell you how happy it makes me!'

'You swear that you will not tell, even if you think you should? You must swear that you will not speak.'

'Goodness! So secretive! I have guessed it- it is Gimli Gloinssion! Or perhaps Frodo Baggins!' She danced in front of him, teasing and laughing and she reminded him of Legolas then and thought how good both Arwen and Legolas were for him. They lightened his heart and made him glad.

'Very well. Swear first.'

'Oh, all right! I swear it will not come from me.'

At last he was satisfied. 'Very well. It is Legolas Thranduillion.'

Arwen stopped dead in front of him. 'No!' She punched him lightly on the arm. 'Tell me truthfully. I have sworn.'

'I do tell you truthfully. He is my heart and soul. He has my heart completely.' Elrohir stopped now and regarded her seriously. 'Is it so strange that I should love him, or that he should love me?'

Arwen stared at him. 'No,' she said at last. And seriously. 'No. How could he help but love you. You are the most wonderful man in the world apart from Aragorn of course. But Legolas is a Silvan Elf. They are…different…have different attachments from us… Are you sure he will see this in the way that you do? Does he indeed love you'?

He saw that she was merely concerned for him.

'Yes. He says so anyway,' Elrohir said and felt a smile on his lips as he spoke of Legolas, knew that his heart shone through his eyes and found that he was happy. 'He is as serious about me as I am about him. Arwen, he is wonderful. 'He found it a relief to speak so, to confide in her his feelings and receive approval, not judgment. She made things lighter.

Arwen was laughing in astonished delight and she grasped his hands to dance him about girlishly. 'Of course he loves you,' she cried. 'How could he not!'

Elrohir suddenly dropped his gaze in shame; Arwen had no idea how soiled he was, what crimes he had committed. He remembered how he had stood on the cold mountain and summoned the Nazgûl, how they had tricked him and then pursued Legolas for they hated him beyond reason. Legolas was the child of Thranduil. He had battled them beneath the eaves of Mirkwood. Tricked them and evaded them. Destroyed their steeds.

Elrohir breathed, tension ebbed. The Nazgûl were vanquished, were they not? They were safe from them. But it did not excuse what he had done.

But he could not tell Arwen what he had done; he thought how pure and clean she was compared with him. He would not sully her thoughts with his confessions. No. But there were others who would demand it of him; and though Legolas had forgiven him, Elrohir had not forgiven himself.

But for now, he walked beneath the trees of Lothlorien with his little sister and listened to her excited news and thought how hard it was the path that she had chosen, for all of them.

00o0o

He could not avoid everyone forever and it was not long before Elladan sought him out and insisted he present himself. So he grudgingly accompanied Elladan and Arwen to the high trees of the Golden Wood where the Lord and Lady awaited their grandchildren.

'My dear boy!' Celeborn opened his arms and embraced Elrohir who even now he was as tall, still rested his forehead against the broad shoulder and was enveloped in the smell of Celeborn. The fresh scent of his grandfather always made him feel safe. He closed his eyes for a moment and wished for the time he could climb up onto his lap and throw his arms around the wide shoulders. For a moment, all the cares, the weight of his deeds, even his besotted adoration of Legolas slipped away and it was just him. He felt Celeborn smile against his hair. 'Well child,' he said in surprised delight. 'Well.' He stroked Elrohir's hair gently, soothing him like he would one of his falcons.

Over his grandfather's shoulder he could see his own father, hurt screwed onto his face. For a moment, Elrohir cringed inwardly; he did not know how or what he should say. And he wondered if he hated his father as much as he thought…the night before he left for Amon Sûl drifted into his mind. With Elladan lying asleep and unconscious still from the wound from the morgul blade that he had stepped into to save Erestor, and Elrohir full of blame and guilt, his father had drawn him close.

Elrohir forced himself to look up. His new-found love for Legolas warmed him; he was accepted for all that he was, he had confronted all that he had done, and what he had not done. He had not raped his own mother. He had not. And all that time he had believed himself guilty of that had been untrue. And yet…when he was here, with his father, he could not bear it.

Elrond met his gaze with surprise and slowly smiled, hesitant. Almost afraid.

Elrohir struggled with himself; and then he saw the loss in his father's eyes, for he was about to lose Arwen for all the Ages of the World. And Elrohir, for all his wrath and fury and anger and guilt, knew he had made his Choice and that meant he too would lose Arwen. Suddenly he could not bear to leave Elrond alone in his grief and he lifted his head.

'Father,' he said.

Elrond sucked in a breath and almost flinched as if Elrohir might have struck him. Slowly, he reached out and rested his hand upon Elrohir's broad shoulder, followed his hand with his gaze as if Elrohir might vanish before him. He nodded wonderingly. 'You are well?' It seemed all he could say for the moment.

Elrohir swallowed. 'Yes…I…I was injured at the Morannon, but I am healed now. More or less.'

And suddenly Elladan was there, the bridge between them again. Laughing. 'Less than more!' he said, throwing an arm around Elrohir's shoulder. 'He is grumpy because his leg is still painful. A blade in the shoulder from an Uruk, and a wound in his thigh, Ada.'

'From an Orc?'

'No,' said Elladan.

'Yes,' said Elrohir at the same time. They looked at each other for a moment and then Elladan threw up a hand.

'Orc,' repeated Elrohir firmly, but Elladan looked at him reproachfully. He had said that Elrohir must not fight him, must agree to be seen by Galadriel and Elrond so they could rid him of the last vestiges of the Black Web. Elrohir hesitated. He owed Elladan more than he could ever repay.

'And there was another thing,' he said softly. 'An infection, a poison. I think I would like you to look at it, Father, if you would.'

The look in Elrond's eyes was more than he could bear; gratitude. And he had so little reason to be grateful to me, thought Elrohir viciously of himself. For I have spurned him in my cowardice, thrown him off when it was fear I would be discovered. He clenched his teeth and shook his head against himself.

'It does not have to be me who heals you,' Elrond said gently and Elrohir looked up to see how his father had retreated, thinking Elrohir had rejected him once again.

'No!' He grasped his father's hand before he could withdraw. 'No…I want you to. It's just…I have…I have much to tell you.'

So it was that he found himself in a cool chamber with gauzy veils lifting in a breeze and the lights of Lothlorien glinting in the trees.

'I have always found Lothlorien a little suffocating,' Elrond was saying quietly. 'Of course I never told your mother. And I would not dare speak of it to anyone else. Galadriel might hear.' He threw a conspiratorial little glance towards a surprised Elrohir. 'It is rather overwhelming to have Her as a Moher-in-law, he added even more quietly.

Elrohir laughed in astonishment. 'I never knew you felt like that,' he said.

Elrond smiled and drew up a stool so he could sit more closely to his son. He had shed the long robes and had on his fine silk shirt and breeches. Elrohir could feel the warmth from his father, and the familiar scent of athelas and all-heal that always permeated his clothes and hair and skin. it was comforting.

'I will need to see where the wound was made,' said Elrond, looking at him.

Elrohir breathed in. 'There is no wound,' he said. 'It…It was absorbed.' He found his father's expert Healer's look on him and felt the slight pressure that was Vilya probing for his wound. 'Into the skin,' he added. 'Through contact with an already infected patient.' He did not seem able to stop himself. '

Elrond leaned closer and lifted the edge of Elrohir's shirt, letting his fingers brush against his son's skin. Instantly, Elrohir felt a peace envelop him, akin to the peace he felt from Elladan but it was not blue but white, intense, clear. It filled him with joy! Vilya shone down upon him, into him, filled him so there was a swelling in his chest that was love. He felt his father's hand hover over his heart for an instant and then gently withdraw, and with it, Vilya's white intensity.

Elrohir blinked and stared at Elrond.

'This…infection…Is it in the form of threads? Like you would see bacteria under the velicë-hyelma?'

Elrohir nodded. The tiny threads of bacteria moving under the slides of the velicë had fascinated him as a child. He had often stood on tiptoe, pressing one eye against the eyescope of the device that Elrond had reinvented from descriptions he had from Maedhros. 'Yes. Just like that.'

Elrond nodded. 'Yes. I can sense the scars in your blood from their presence. I would like to have a sample and look at it but they have nothing like the velicë here. Vilya will have to do, amplifying my Sight as she can.' Elrond shuffled closer again, and this time he instructed Elrohir to take off his shirt so he could see the whole.

As he did so, Elrond made a small noise of distress and Elrohir remembered too late, the small scars he had from battle and from where the Nazgûl had pierced him many times. The shoulder wound was healed but still visible, although at least the marks upon him from Legolas had faded, he thought relieved. It was a conversation he was not yet ready to have.

'You have been hurt more than this,' Elrond said softly. But his voice was not that of the healer but the father and Elrohir felt a surge of anxious recrimination. He stared at Elrond; surely Elrond did not feel guilty about him, Elrohir?

But Elrond said nothing and the rawness and hurt were hurriedly pulled back beneath Vilya's light.

Slowly, Elrohir felt the heat of Vilya excoriating the burning threads that still lingered in his blood. As they dissipated, he saw how his father bent all his thought and concentration into the Song and wielded it like a blade. A thin blade of light from Vilya brushed over his skin, the healing lacerations and the skin knit and sealed, thickened under Vilya's patient blade.

At last, Elrond sighed and bowed his head. 'I have it,' he said. 'It is gone. The scars in your blood are healing now, the little cells replenishing themselves. The bacteria was designed to overwhelm you, kill you, but that has gone. There was a secondary effect though; the scars left by the bacteria seemed unable to heal.' He pushed his chair back and wiped his hands on a cloth that hung nearby. 'Very subtle. I have never seen anything like it but once and that in Beleriand. If I had not known, I would have missed it.'

He rose to his feet and washed his hands in a bowl. 'It was made as a weapon against the Elves,' he said. 'Men would simply be killed but this was intended first to completely overpower whoever was infected, and then to change them from within.'

Elrohir could not speak. It had been made to subjugate Legolas, to make him Elrohir's thrall. It sickened him now to even think it, and he bowed his head in shame. Elrond slowly paused, slowed his hands as if he noticed Elrohir's distress and was thinking how to broach it. At last, he lay down the towel and scooped up his robe, threw it casually over his shoulder.

'I am hungry,' he said unexpectedly. 'Will you join me?'

Elrohir found himself suddenly famished and without thinking, said, 'Yes.'

So he found himself following his father from one flet to another until they came to Elrond's quarters, and there was Erestor and Glorfindel, already seated as if this were planned although it clearly had not been.

As Elrohir entered the talan, both rose to their feet with exclamations of delight and welcome and came towards him, embracing him warmly. Then from behind him, another stepped from the shadows.

Tindómion.

Elrohir felt a dreadful flare of jealousy and fury.

He remembered the night he had returned with Elladan cradled in his arms, desperate, full of guilt and remorse, having sunk on his knees in the mud before Angmar, offered himself if only Angmar would cure Elladan of the wound of the morgul blade. And Angmar had rifled in his thoughts, delved in his dreams, searched his secret fears and guilty vice and found them; the corruption wrought by Haldir, the guilty secret that he been too late to save his mother.

But that night he had fled to his friend, Tindómion for comfort;

his door had been closed and Elrohir pounded on it.

 _'_ _Istel!' he had cried and leaned his forehead against the door, one hand on the door jamb. Please be here, he thought desperately, Temptation was too much. He needed to be kept from the One Ring that whispered to him what it could do._

 _It was a moment before he heard his friend within._

 _'_ _Istelion!' he cried again in despair._

 _He was almost aware of quiet voices but did not register it quite until Tindómion opened the door. His long bronze hair was loose and his shirt open, hastily tucked into his breeches. His silver-grey eyes were slightly dazed and the pupils dilated, his lips were slightly swollen but Elrohir barely noticed in his distress. He bowed his head and leaned it against Tindómion's shoulder._

 _'_ _I cannot bear this, Istel. I should have stopped him.'_

 _A strong, comforting arm was thrown around his shoulder and Tindómion leaned his own head against Elrohir's. 'I have someone here,' he murmured in a low voice. Elrohir started and pulled back, suddenly realising why his friend's shirt was half undone, untucked. An apology on his lips he backed away mortified but Tindómion pulled him close and lowered his voice, speaking into his hair like he was a child. 'He will understand. Let me ask him to_

 _leave. He will not mind.'_

 _'_ _Ah, forgive me, Istel!' Elrohir cried softly. That it was a man in Tindómion's rooms was no surprise to Elrohir. Tindómion was unashamed of his preferences, and discrete because he wished to be, not out of respect for Elrond or any other. It was his own business. 'I did not mean to disturb you. But I do not think I can …' His voice broke in a sob. 'He is so still and cold!'_

 _'_ _Elrohir, stay. I cannot allow you to leave like this. You are too… vulnerable.' Tindómion's grey eyes were concerned. 'You know of what I speak,' he said emphatically, holding Elrohir's gaze. 'We will talk in a moment but when I have explained to.' Tindómion drew Elrohir after him, one hand on his arm so Elrohir could not have pulled away without immense discourtesy to one he knew loved him._

 _There was movement in the shadows. An Elf pushed himself away from the wall where he had been leaning, his movements sensuous and languorous. Elrohir had opened his mouth to apologise for the intrusion but no words came. He stared. The Elf was barefoot and his white linen shirt gaped wide, and in the soft lamplight his pale skin gleamed. His shirt had slipped off one shoulder and Elrohir saw the outlandish colour and swirling pat-terns inked on his skin beneath the shirt. Pale gold hair fell loosely and unbound over his broad shoulders and straight down as far as his lean hips. It was Legolas Thranduillion. Barefoot and his long green eyes were dazed with lust. When he saw who it was Elrohir he blinked slowly and his mouth, warm and wanton, opened in a gasp._

 _Elrohir's heart leapt in his chest and something emerged from the darkness of his thoughts, an image…_

 _Fiery light, torches in sconces gleaming on the rocky wall, lighting up a body hanging, stretched to its limits, from shackles, from chains disappearing into the dark. Long, pale gold hair …Ah! Eru… Lust flared and ignited in his loins and shame blazed in his heart…Flat-bellied, lean hipped. Pale skin already marked with blood, a wild whirl of colour and abstract… The sound of a lash against flesh, a muffled cry and he jerked and pulsed with lust._

 _'_ _Your yôzaira.'_

 _He knew his lip curled in disgust at himself, but Legolas saw it and his own mouth pressed thinly in an answering, unspoken challenge. Their eyes met like clashing blades and slid off each other. It made Elrohir want to dominate and subdue! Legolas was here for sex. He could smell it in the air. Desire charged into his belly, churned in his balls and he stiffened. His face flushed and his voice stuck in his throat, he could not speak. I am not this! he railed against himself. But he was._

 _And he knew it._

 _'_ _I think I had best leave.' Legolas was cold and stiff. He was angry, thought Elrohir._

 _Tindómion's arm about Elrohir sagged slightly. He was disappointed, Elrohir recognised. But Tindómion only said, 'Yes, probably for the best.…'_

 _Legolas inclined his head slightly towards him and there was no mistaking the slight curl of anger and arrogance on Legolas' lips, Elrohir thought._

Oh, how he had wanted to wipe the arrogant sneer from Legolas' mouth, Elrohir remembered, how hot and full and needy he had been. Of course it had been nothing to do with Celebrian's rescue that made him desire Legolas; it was desire. Just pure desire. And later of course, he had recognised that it was not even just desire but that Legolas touched his soul.

But Tindómion had been Legolas' lover. And that was enough to make Elrohir pause. He gauged his feeling about that, wondered what he felt and how deep it was.

Was that strange disappointed ache in his heart jealousy or something else? A longing, a deep heart-aching misery. He did not deserve Legolas. He was so damaged, so corrupted.

But he had not time to think for he was enveloped in the warmth of Tindómion's hug and the jealous thoughts were driven out by the brotherly love they had shared for centuries, before either even knew of Legolas' existence. Erestor and Glorfindel joined them and drew him close, rested their heads against his, and spoke gladly at the joy in seeing him. The last time he had seen Glorfindel, the First Age warrior had been recovering from the attack upon Amon Sûl where he had been struck down by Angmar and only Major's glorious rescue had saved him. Even now Elrohir wondered if he had been dreaming. At the time, Tindómion had found it hard to forgive Elrohir for keeping his promise to Maglor and not telling Tindómion, his son, that he had been there. But there was no trace of resentment or lingering hurt in Tindómion's joy at seeing him, or in being in Erestor and Glorfindel's company. But now Elrohir wondered too if Erestor had told Elrond, who loved Maglor as Tindómion could not.

He chose not to ask the hard questions, and they did not ask him anything he did not wish to say either. Instead they spoke long into the night, telling of their adventures, and Elladan joined them too at last and they heard how the hordes had come down from the Hithaeglir and attacked first the Brown Lands and the Trollshaws, slowly wiping out the little farms and villages, then attacking the Rangers in the Angle and crossing the Bruinen and into Imladris.

They drank long and hard, egged on by Erestor's outrageous claims that had Glorfindel rolling his eyes and shaking his head, and Elrohir and Elladan joined Tindómion laughing.

When at last he slept, Elrohir was peaceful, the beginning of healing between he and Elrond speeding the healing of his own body. He dreamed of Legolas. Awakening in the night with a sense of cold dread in his belly that Legolas was in mortal danger however, he shook himself and told himself it was just fear and the last vestiges of the Black Web that made him fear. For Legolas was safe in Minas Tirith and Sauron's army destroyed. Surely there could be nothing to disturb their peace for a while yet at least?

0o0o

Legolas pulled a cloak over his shoulders. He did not usually feel the cold. Even on Caradhras he had given his cloak to Pippin whose teeth had been chattering while Legolas had not felt it too badly. He had noted, at the time, as well that his own cloak was much better at repelling water and snow than the other companions. Now he felt cold as if his very bones ached. It was odd.

In the little room he had taken, his bow leaned against the wall and his knives were in their sheaths and harness were draped over the wooden chair in one corner. The maid who came in daily to clean the house had turned back the small mirror over above the mantelpiece so it gleamed softly in the lamplight. He stared at it, thinking it was like an eye, spying on him from Somewhere Else. He told himself he was foolish but he avoided looking into it.

Downstairs he could hear the clatter of plates and knives and forks as the hobbits tidied up after supper. The sound was domestic and comforting and he thought he should go and join them for he knew he felt a little lonely. He missed Elrohir's fire and passion, the wholeness of his love, his adoration and devotion. He missed the consuming fire of it. But there was another bit of him that wanted something else; home. Listening to the pots and pans being washed and put away, the merry chatter of voices, he was reminded of the great kitchen at home. Galion scolding the maids and getting in Úroch's way, Anglach and he cajoling cakes and pies from the cooks and scullery maids…Anglach.

An ache settled in his heart that he could not bear. He had not had time to really think about Anglach on the quest, there had been so much danger and peril. But now that there was peace, and the threat had gone, it seemed his heart was determined to mourn. He sat on his bed with his knees drawn up and his cloak draped over his shoulders. He leaned his cheek on his hand and stared at nothing, remembering the countless Feasts of Starlight when they had leapt with increasing recklessness over bonfires, or juggled with knives when drunk, played Five Finger Filit even drunker so their fingers were cut and gouged and they were too stupid to feel it. He thought how Anglach would have loved to know that he was friends with a dwarf and would have wanted to play with Pippin and stare at Elrohir. He smiled through the tears that pricked his eyes; he did not know what Anglach would have made of Elrohir. He did not know what Thranduil or Laersul or Thalos would think…he chewed his lip and his fingers picked at the cuff of his tightly sewn tunic sleeve. They would not be pleased. They would worry. Whereas his friendship with Gimli would hardly cause comment…maybe a little. But once they met Gimli, all would be well…But Elrohir was another matter entirely.

Perhaps he had been unfair on Elrohir, demanding that Elrohir say what he would tell HIS father when Legolas had not thought how he would tell his own.

Gradually the clatter from below dimmed and he smelt the fragrance of pipeweed curling through the air; the hobbits were sitting outside and smoking, he realised. He could hear their low voices beneath the apple tree where they sat on blankets on the grass and watched as the stars began to appear slowly, one by one at first and then gradually, sweeping across the darkening sky. But as the darkness drew close, he felt restless. A churning in his blood that made him want to run across the rooftops and leap into the trees, to gallop Arod wildly across the plains…It was the Sea, he thought. And before he knew it, he had thrown his cloak onto the floor and was climbing out of the window and into the tree.

'At last!' Merry called up. 'Come on down, Legolas, and join us.'

Distracted, Legolas looked down at the Hobbit's upturned face. Merry was grinning and beckoning with such warmth that Legolas' unhappiness vanished and he slid through the tree, hopping from branch to branch until his feet were on the grass and he cast himself beside the hobbits.

'What are you doing up there on your own?' Pippin shoved Legolas cheerfully. 'Not missing Gimli, surely?'

'Pippin!' Frodo cried, amused. 'Stop teasing.'

But Legolas smiled a little. 'I am missing the dwarf indeed. He is a rock and I feel a little storm-tossed.' He smiled as reassuringly as he could at the Hobbits' suddenly serious expressions.

'Is that the Sea-longing, Legolas?' asked Pippin. His face was serious and concerned and his pipe was half way to his mouth. 'If it is, you must tell us.'

'Yes. We are supposed to be looking after you,' Frodo added. Legolas smiled with sudden affection for these heroic little men who were determined to look after him, a warrior of the Woods.

'I do not think it is,' he said. 'I just miss everyone. I miss Gimli. And Aragorn,' he realised. He did not say that he missed home, or that he missed Elrohir. The very thought of Elrohir made him almost swoon with longing. Is this it? he wondered. Am I just truly in love with my beloved? And that is all it is, this unsettled strangeness?

'Come and talk to us, Legolas,' Frodo said with a shrewd look. 'Bilbo used to talk a lot about the Woodland Realm. He told us about when he was hiding in the stronghold and how you and another Elf had to look after the Dwarves.'

'Yes!' cried Pippin excitedly. 'He said Dwalin used to deliberately drop the most enormous turds!'

Merry laughed. 'Because you and your friend, An..Angerlick?' He frowned and shook his head. 'Anyway, the two of you had to collect the pots and he saw it as revenge! Is that true?'

'Anglach,' Legolas corrected softly. 'Yes- it is true.' He smiled and forced himself to brightness because Frodo looked so frail sitting amongst the cushions, and Sam was gazing up with a starry expression that meant he was hearing a story he knew well and loved. 'Dwalin did drop the biggest stinkiest turds I have ever seen in my life. They were like a horse's droppings.'

'I love that story,' Sam murmured to himself and Legolas laughed in spite of himself for it was unexpected that Sam, who was so proper and tidy, would enjoy such an earthy tale.

So he found himself telling the Hobbits the story of how the company of Thorin Oakenshield, which included one Hobbit and a Ring that no one knew about, found itself in the so-called dungeons of the Elven King, and how Legolas and his dearest friend, Anglach, looked after them until their notorious escape which had resulted in disgrace for the two friends until Bilbo revealed his secret.

Pippin and Merry were lying on their bellies, chins in their hands and swinging their feet in the air and laughing at the story. And Legolas smiled; strangely he wanted to talk of Anglach. It felt somehow that he was still alive and just waiting at home for Legolas to return so they could pick up where they left off, teasing and daring each other to do sillier and sillier things, flirting and complaining of broken hearts.

'Anglach was always telling the maidens that I was the lost child of the goblin-king, or that I was an orc foundling or something.'

'He sounds just like you, Pip,' said Merry. 'What do you think he will make of Elrohir?' he asked and Pippin, as if he had just realised, made an ooh noise, eyes wide and round.

Legolas looked up at the stars and stretched out his long legs. 'I was wondering that myself,' he said quietly and leaning back on his hands. 'I think…I think he will be happy for me,' he managed to say and even as he spoke, he realised the truth of his own words, and that he was no longer the Elf that had flirted with Sigrid that day after the battle, or the Elf that had looked after the Dwarves. He could no longer lie, limbs and hair tangled with Miriel and Lossar, he thought with a dreadful sadness, for both of them were dead, like Anglach. But he did not want to dwell on that either. What was true was that he had changed utterly. He wondered if Anglach would even like the Elf Legolas had become. But it was Anglach's death that had changed him so, and Elrohir's overwhelming passion. He had to look down quickly for he was suddenly overcome with emotion.

There was a silence and the Hobbits glanced at each other though Legolas did not see them. But a small hand closed over his very gently and he looked up to see Sam watching him with a slow realisation and concern. He found a well laundered linen handkerchief pressed into his hand by Frodo and blew his nose, noting with surprise that it had his own father's emblems embroidered upon the laundered linen.

'He gave some to Bilbo, as a gift when last he visited the Wood,' Frodo explained. 'Bilbo had them with him in Rivendell and told me I might need them. How strange,' he said softly. 'This one went all the way to Mordor with me and was still in my pocket when I got here. Not as clean as it is now of course. It has been washed,' he smiled gently.

Legolas realised guiltily that Frodo's eyes were sunken and he looked so tired. Pippin yawned widely and Sam said firmly, 'Mister Frodo sir, time you went up.' He stood up and the Hobbits sighed and struggled to their feet. With soft goodnights, Sam led Frodo back inside and Merry stayed a little while longer, until he yawned hugely and shuffled off to bed. And then there was only Legolas and Pippin, who still lay on his belly and swung his feet and rested his chin in his hands.

'How old are you, Legolas?'

Legolas frowned. 'I have seen many an oak to ruinous age grown,' he said. 'But the Elves do not count the years as so Men.'

'Well you seem like a tweenager sometimes, and very ancient sometimes. And then at other times, a mere child.'

'Well I think that of you too, Pip,' he said.

Pippin stayed and kept him company, talking quietly of his home, the Shire and its rolling hills and meandering rivers, the meads and woods. And Legolas thought he might visit. Pippin told him too of the Old Wood and piqued Legolas' interest even more.

'I will come there one day,' he said in a promise and then saw that Pippin's eyes were crossing with trying to stay awake until at least his words were slurred with sleep and Legolas gently ushered him upstairs and to bed.

Legolas stayed up and watched the stars until the darkness began to deepen and then the first creamy crack of dawn appeared in the East and he wondered how long before Elrohir returned.

0o0o


	23. Chapter 23 Messages

Thank you to all those who have reviewed -firerosedreamer, ninde, freddie, Annika, Sparky TAs, Nako. It was nice to have those- I hope this chapter inspires a few more of you say hello:)

Beta: Anarithilen.

Chapter 23:Messages

Aragorn leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. He sat in his preferred office for there were many in the Palace, but this one was snug and cosy, its windows opening onto the rose garden. On the desk in front of Aragorn were a number of messages, but the one he held was resting lightly in his hands. He tapped it on the heavy mahogany desk and pursed his lips. Although it had arrived the evening before, its contents bothered him.

Aragorn had been having supper with the Hobbits and Legolas then. He missed their noisy company and warm friendship. Pippin had been singing his version of The Prancing Pony, one that he would not have sung in other company, when the message arrived. There was some excitement, for this was the second message from Gandalf. The first had come a few days earlier. Gandalf and Gimli had arrived in Pelargir too late to apprehend the fugitive, Kustîg, for he had reached Pelargir a full day ahead of them and had already boarded a ship to Umbar. Gandalf had intended to catch the next tide and pursue him to Umbar.

This second message was from Umbar.

'They are in Umbar,' Aragorn had said excitedly as he tore open the message. '"Gimli and I have lost him I fear,"' he read aloud and there was a collective sigh of disappointment from the Hobbits and Elf. '"He is nowhere to be found although we will give it another few days."'

'He will surely be hiding out in some tavern or seedy place,' suggested Legolas. 'It is a city still hostile to Gondor and I cannot imagine anyone willingly telling a dwarf and Wizard anything,' he added a little testily. 'I should have gone with them. I don't know why Gandalf thinks that I am less useful than a dwarf.' No one said that Legolas had not been taken because Gimli and Aragorn had been worried about the effect of Legolas being closer to the Sea.

'Gandalf should have taken Merry and me,' Pippin added. 'Gimli is hardly subtle. We would have been able to listen in the corners of taverns and found things out.'

'Yes, I agree, Pippin,' said Legolas, not very seriously. 'And I would have listened at windows and at doors. Together we would have it covered.'

Frodo had been laughing at the idea but Aragorn was puzzled. 'What is strange,' he had said, 'is that I have travelled these routes many a time, and I cannot see how Kustîg managed the journey to Pelargir in under two days unless he was on his own and on a fast horse.' He looked around the company of Hobbits and one Elf. 'It has never taken me less than three days from Pelargir to the city when travelling with cargo, as Kustîg would have done with that Mirror.'

Legolas had laughed. 'He probably sits a horse rather better than you,' he said.

'That is more than a little unfair,' Aragorn protested but even Sam smiled behind his hand. 'I do wonder why a cart travelling at such speed would not have aroused suspicion or be stopped.' Aragorn did not add that he thought Kustîg must have whipped the horses until they bled to reach Pelargir in such a short time.

'It would be unrealistic to suppose that all Men are incorruptible,' Frodo had said softly.

'Yes, not every Man is like you,' Legolas had said, perhaps feeling he had been a little hard of Aragorn for his riding. 'The Dunedin are incorruptible like you…if a bit grumpy. But the same cannot be said of all Men. Or Elves either.'

'Well I have sent a message to Gandalf,' Aragorn had said, 'to tell him to return to Pelargir and then back here. I cannot see that any good will come now of pursuing Kustîg further. It remains for my ambassadors and envoys to ensure there are good enough relations between Gondor and Harad and Khand to ensure Kustîg does not succeed in raising an army.'

And that seemed to be enough for the Hobbits had agreed and raised their glasses in appreciation. Legolas was delighted that Gimli would be back soon and confessed he was missing him. The rest of the evening had been spent in pleasant good humour and only now in the cold light of morning did Aragorn's thoughts turn again to the mystery of how Kustîg had made it to Pelargir before Gandalf, and where he was now.

Perhaps he had not taken the Mirror after all, Aragorn thought. Perhaps someone else had taken it…

He frowned. Who else knew of its existence? The men who went to Minas Morgul knew, he thought. They might not have known its power but they knew it was of sufficient value to be brought to Gondor and hidden. But of the Men who had brought the Mirror down from Minas Morgul, one was dead and one had left the city. Then there were the sentries who guarded the Hallows; they knew there was something there that was valued by Gandalf certainly and it was not so great a leap as to work out it might have some dark power. But the ones who had been corrupt, taking the 'Pilgrims' to visit Denethor's tomb. They had been dismissed and had no access to it now. Those left were vouched for by Beregond.

Even if someone had guessed its value, they did not know for sure. Gandalf alone knew what the Mirror might be, for certainly Aragorn did not, nor did Legolas, nor Gimli. They had speculated that perhaps it was part of the Great Wonder of Khazad-dûm, Narvi's Hall of Mirrors, or similar from Celebrimbor's forge, but that was mere guesswork. He thought back to Ioralas' death. Would someone think the Mirror valuable enough to kill for?

Whoever had helped Kustîg escape, Aragorn thought as he carefully tore little pieces from the edges of Gandalf's message, could have stolen the Mirror themselves and hidden it inside the city. To sell it maybe?

There was a light tap on the door of the study now. Aragorn started from his reverie, and turning his head he saw that Faramir stood in the doorway. Aragorn smiled warmly and beckoned him in, gesturing to the comfortable chair opposite.

'How are food supplies?' was his first question. It was always his first question: the people had to be fed.

Faramir smiled slightly for it was no more than he expected. 'Better than we expected, my lord. We have had a steady stream of merchants, and farmers using the markets in the lower levels. Their prices are exorbitant but to be expected I suppose given the war has decimated the fields of Pelennor and many of the closest farms were destroyed.' He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair thoughtfully. 'But farmers are canny and it seems most had driven off their livestock into the mountains and forests and now they return. So we will not starve. But no feasts for a little while.'

Faramir paused for a moment. Then he looked up and met Aragorn's eyes. 'It was very good of you to give your own money to pay for the feast honouring my…' He swallowed. 'Honouring my father.'

Aragorn nodded slowly, appreciating that it cost Faramir to speak of Denethor. 'It was for you, my friend. And Boromir, who was also my friend. My comrade. As are you.'

Faramir drew a breath but his eyes were clear and Aragorn could see only a desire to serve, to be loyal to the People and City and her King. He was so like Boromir and yet the pride that clung to Boromir did not appear to be in his younger brother at all. Aragorn smiled for he liked Faramir and thought they would work well together. He had shown his quality by standing at Aragorn's side as they paid tribute to both Denethor and Boromir. There were no bodies of course for either but a good likeness had been sculpted for each, and the ceremonial feast was grand and fitting for two Men who had indeed served Gondor all their lives. Merry and Pippin had spoken at the ceremony, of Boromir and how he gave his life to save theirs, and Aragorn had been careful to tell the people Boromir's last words. It was Bearos who had urged him to do this. Aragorn had been surprised at the number of people who emerged to honour Denethor; it had been a lesson to him. A good one. Through it he had been able to gauge the people's feeling for their Steward who had served them long and well. And Aragorn had praised him where he was due and saw too, that there was respect for this new King for the honour he showed his Steward and sons, maybe even gratitude in the faces of some. But in others there was still suspicion and hostility. The old Lord Herion was one of those.

Faramir was smiling too and a new found confidence seemed to light him up. And then he ventured a question. 'I wonder my lord, if I might have my knife back yet?'

Aragorn felt as if he had been punched in his belly. All the cheer and good feeling blew out of him. He had been avoiding this. 'Of course,' was what he said lightly. He stood and opened a drawer. He took out the knife that Legolas had found brought to him, claiming that he had found it quivering in the door jamb after a ghoul had thrown it at him. That ghoul, Legolas was convinced, had been responsible for draining Ioralas of blood.

He handed the knife hilt first to Faramir.

Faramir hefted the dagger lightly. 'I still do not know how it left my chambers,' he said. 'But I will lock all doors now and I have spoken to my servants.'

Aragorn said nothing.

Faramir placed the dagger carefully on the table before him and asked, 'And what of Gandalf and his pursuit? Any luck with catching our escaped prisoner?'

Aragorn lifted the message and handed it to Faramir, forcing himself to do so, forcing himself to trust. 'They reached Pelargir too late and so have missed Kustîg in Umbar. I do not think we can recover him.'

'Or the artefact,' Faramir added seriously.

'Indeed.'

Faramir paused and then said, 'My lord, Gandalf was very keen that this…artefact be kept hidden and secret. It is not…like the Ring though surely?'

Aragorn gave an unamused laugh. 'No. It is not. The One Ring sought its Maker, and to rule all else. All the Rings made by Sauron seek dominion.' He felt a cold shiver steal down his back at the thought of the thin wails of the Nazgûl hunting the Fellowship in the darkness and the Wild. 'Thank Illuvatar that all the Rings are destroyed, gone into the Void at the Black Gate when Sauron fell.' He blew out a breath, remembering how the remaining Nazgûl had been dragged into the chasms that had opened up before the Black Gate as Barad-dûr fell. 'No. This is not one of the Rings of Power. This is a Mirror made indeed, so Gandalf thinks, by Celebrimbor himself. I do not know of any Power it has in itself. It is merely…' He waved his hand dismissively although it bothered him intensely, this Mirror and its theft. 'Gandalf wishes to take all such things to Valinor where they will be safe. These links with the Old World, of magic and sorcery are best left to Wizards and Elves. I hope that Gandalf finds it, but no one will build a kingdom on it and I have just sent a message and asked that Gandalf return, for he will not apprehend Kustîg now. He is long gone and on his way home.'

Faramir nodded and then seemed to consider something. 'My lord, I believe I may have a solution for the problem of the Houses of Healing.'

Aragorn sighed. 'What state are they in? Still overflowing?'

'I am sorry my lord, the sick and injured flood in from the districts and lower levels still.' Faramir frowned and then continued, 'I have done as you asked and commanded Herion to make way and remove from his house beside them and give them over to the sick and injured. No doubt you will receive his emissary this afternoon.' He ran his fingers through his hair agitated. 'These commands are making you unpopular, my lord. The old families are not used to be commanded this way. My father….my father had them tightly bound through patronage and privilege.'

Faramir did not say it, but Aragorn knew that he meant that the new King was ordering the old families from their homes upon the seventh level, closest to the seat of power, so that the sick and injured might be closer.

He tapped his teeth.

'What should we do then?' he asked. 'About the Houses of Healing?' If this is going to cause such resentment amongst these old families who live here on the seventh level, I would not oust them from this place just so they can go elsewhere and foment rebellion.'

Faramir took a breath. 'There is something we could try. May I ask Bearos to join us? He has an idea,' he said with hesitation and Aragorn thought him too deferential, too used to asking and not commanding. He would have to change that but now he merely nodded.

Faramir pushed back his chair as if to fetch the Man but at the very moment there was a quiet knock on the door and Bearos entered quietly.

Aragorn suppressed a frown for the Man was close to Faramir and in all his counsels but Aragorn could not quite bring himself to trust him completely, though he could not say why; perhaps, Aragorn admitted to himself, he had been influenced by Legolas in this. The Elf disliked the Man intensely, even though Bearos had spoken for Elrohir and Legolas on more than one occasion and made himself indispensable in so many ways. He had been helping with the pensioning of widows, the setting up of orphanages, things that Aragorn wanted done, and quickly. Things that helped the common folk, although it was at the expense of the older, richer families. Bearos was hated by the likes of Lord Herion.

But Bearos never gave Aragorn reason for distrust and now he bowed and said quietly, 'You asked that I join you, lord Steward.'

Faramir smiled warmly and pulled out a chair beside him. As he seated himself with quiet poise, Aragorn looked at him: Bearos' face seemed strange, almost stretched and strained, like he was having to concentrate on keeping his mouth not just closed, as in shut, but almost as if his jaw might stretch and elongate.

Aragorn shook himself. It was ridiculous, he told himself. He was tired. He did not sleep well in these soft beds with too many pillows and feather quilts. He almost always slept on the floor and hastily shoved everything back on the bed to make it look like he had slept in comfort.

'Speak, my friend,' Faramir said more warmly. 'Tell the King what we discussed about the Houses of Healing.'

Bearos shrugged, self-deprecating.'It is nothing, my lord. Just common sense and I am sure you have thought it yourself a thousand times…But I have never really understood why we have to bring the injured all the way up here, through the many steep streets and over bumpy cobbles. Why do we not simply install a House on each level instead?'

Aragorn stared in surprise. It was so simple it seemed too easy to work for a moment but Faramir had leaned forward with enthusiasm at the idea. 'Yes. Just think, my lord. If we could have a House on each level, the sick could be nursed near their homes, and each house could have a healer posted there to help with minor injuries when they happen so that infection is stopped before they are brought up here ranting and beyond all help.' He looked up at Aragorn, eyes shining. 'How much less suffering would there be for the wounded to be taken to the nearest House instead of being dragged all the way up here?'

Aragorn blinked; of course. It really was that simple. He had never lived in such a densely populated community as Minas Tirith. In the Angle, every village had its healers, many of them. In Imladris, of course they were the Wards that Elrond oversaw. He leaned back and laughed.

'Let us do this! And I can give Herion the good news that he no longer has to move out of his home,' he said with absolute relief for he sensed trouble brewing if he had forced it.

'My lords, you have not heard the news?' Bearos said softly.

Both Men looked enquiringly at the grave advisor.

'Lord Herion was in bed, asleep it seems, when Death took him.'

Faramir gasped and rose to his feet in shock.

'In his sleep?' Aragorn asked. He could not deny the relief he felt at the news; Herion had been a thorn in his side.

'He was found this morning. There will be a ceremony at the family's request. They had asked that they might delay the move from their house until after this has taken place.' Bearos spoke quietly, but to Aragorn it seemed almost forced, as if the Man were struggling to hold in laughter- but surely that was his imagination for Faramir did not seem to have noticed anything.

Faramir stood in shock. 'I must go to the Lady Gwithindel. She was an old friend of my mother's,' he explained to Aragorn and the new King was reminded again how fragile were the ties that bound his people to him. New and delicate. They needed tending.

He nodded. 'I will come with you to pay my respects,' he began, but Faramir stopped him.

'Allow me to do this one thing, my lord. I will give her the news that you have decided that they no longer have to move. It will be a comfort.'

Aragorn was about to refuse, knowing that it needed to come from him, to establish that he had listened, was compassionate, but in the long rays of sunlight that lay over the still hours of morning, Bearos stood silently, barely moving and the light flashed in the antique gold ring he wore on his gloved finger. Aragorn looked at it oddly, wondering where it came from, but in the next moment, he was smoothed and calmed and felt suddenly calm, sleepy, and he remembered that he had barely slept.

He waved Faramir away. 'Go. Do as you see fit,' Aragorn said slowly. 'I have these ledgers to peruse and then a council meeting to prepare. Give the family my highest regards and tell them that Herion will command a place in the Hallows. He has earned it.'

Faramir bowed and left but Bearos lingered, and Aragorn did not see a reason to send him away. In fact, Bearos was useful and took notes, helped him organise some things he had been putting off, and Aragorn began to see why Faramir valued him.

0o0o0

Legolas leaned back on the bench that was in the kitchen. Lobelia (for the Hobbits)/Luthien (for Aragorn)/Azaghâl (for Gimli)/ Glaurung (the cat's real name) was curled up on his lap and snoring loudly. He had not known cats snored until now. He rested his head against the wall behind him, stroking the little cat in long soothing strokes and watched as Merry and Pippin put the last plates away from First Breakfast. It was a little earlier than usual, for the two hobbits were going to visit Beregond and Bergil and to spend the day with their friends. Frodo and Sam had missed First Breakfast but Merry and Pippin were already thoughtfully studying the contents of the pantry in readiness for Second Breakfast when Frodo and Sam came downstairs.

Neither Frodo or Sam seemed as interested in food as they used to be, Legolas thought sadly, although Sam was slowly recovering his interest in the garden as the little spring flowers peered out between the weeds. Legolas had been helping Sam, and with the attentions of both Hobbit and Woodelf, the garden was flourishing. They had moved a bench beneath the old apple tree so that even Aragorn could stretch out his long shanks. Legolas could sit in the topmost branches then and drop things on his head, for it was too early for apples.

'I wonder when Gandalf and Gimli will return,' he said, for he was the odd one out, without Gimli's company. Aragorn only visited briefly these days, and although he had joined them for supper the evening before, that was an uncommon event. 'If Aragorn has commanded them back here, the message will not reach them until…' He thought for a while. 'A day to get to Pelargir, that's today perhaps, and then it could be three more depending if the messenger catches the tide. And then the return journey…That could be six days,' he realised a little more gloomily.

'There is no need to rush back though, is there?' Pippin said, reaching for the dishcloth. 'They might have a look around Umbar. It sounds interesting,' he said cheerfully.

Legolas' heart sank a little more, but a thought struck him. 'I wonder if they will find our friends, Nestor and Anor. We rescued them from the black ships,' he explained and smiled, remembering how gently Nestor had nursed him when he had been wounded, both in body and from the call of the gulls. 'I hope they do,' he said fervently. 'I would like to know that he and Anor are well and are finding their way home after all these years of slavery.'

Legolas bowed his head over Glaurung, who stretched and yawned and dug her little needle-sharp claws into Legolas' thigh. But though he winced, he did not complain and did not stop her.

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other and then Merry said cheerily. 'Legolas, pass over that cup will you? There's a good fellow.'

Legolas blinked and leaned carefully forwards so he did not disturb Glaurung, and snagged the cup between his long fingers. He flicked the cup upwards and caught it dextrously, then lobbed it accurately towards Merry, who held out both his hands in panic but caught it nevertheless.

'I've been thinking,' Pippin announced.

Merry immediately said, 'That's never a good idea, Pip. Makes your brain hurt and you're not very good at it.'

'I am actually,' Pippin said with pardonable pride and threw the dishcloth at Merry, who caught it laughing. 'I've been thinking that we should go back to the fourth level, Legolas, all of us.' Pippin sat on the bench opposite Legolas. 'Don't you think so, Merry?'

Merry looked dubious. 'I'm not sure, Pip. That thing threw a knife at Legolas.'

Glaurung's claws dug deeper into Legolas as if she had understood and determined she certainly had no intention of going back there. Legolas uncurled the little claws from the fabric of his breeches. He did not say that he had been on the fourth level every night since he had found Ioralas' body, or that he had looked through every window of every tavern, listened at corners and windows and spied upon the ordinary folk in the hope of finding the woman claiming to have been Ioralas' mother… or glimpse a shadow clad in black with a white face. But in spite of all his efforts, he had seen nothing that would help. The Hobbits thought he was sitting in the apple tree and singing to the stars. But when he was not spying, he was keeping watch over the Hobbits, and over the city as best he could. And even though the Mirror was supposed to have gone from the city, he was still not convinced the ghoul had gone, for every now and again he felt an oily slickness on the air like something had passed before him. And sometimes he felt like he was looking down into a pool at night when moonlight lay upon the water so everything was sepia and the houses were bent inwards. It reminded him horribly of the Nazgûl…. But they were gone. Angmar had been destroyed by Eowyn and Merry, Khamûl by Elrohir upon the Mountain, and the remaining seven were all dragged into the Void before the Morannon.

'It missed though,' said Pippin said of the knife thrown at Legolas by the ghoul. 'And we have been in a war now, Merry. It's not like…well, we are not like we were when we left the Shire,' Pippin finished but his voice was firm. 'And anyway, it hasn't been seen since the Easterling escaped…Kustîg. He took that Mirror with him and it seems the ghoul too. He's welcome to both as far as I am concerned.' He shook himself.

'Why did Kustîg want the Mirror anyway, Legolas? What power does it have?' Merry asked shrewdly.

Slowly Legolas stroked the cat's soft fur. He took a breath and then tilted his head. 'Elrohir told me that he thought the Mirror was made by Celebrimbor. If so, it had no evil purpose and Gimli said that there are tales of a Hall of Glass in Khazad-dûm, where the seer could walk upon and through light,' he said. It was exactly as Gimli had said. 'Gimli said that the spectrum was like a tangible thing. He said that there were many mirrors that lined the hall and the light stretched.' Legolas shrugged. He really had not quite understood what Gimli was saying about the Hall of Glass. He could not imagine light stretching. 'But I am just a simple warrior and do not know what that means.'

'But this one wasn't in Mori…Khazad-dûm. It was in Minas Morgul,' said Pippin, leaning his elbows on the table and putting his chin in his hands. 'So it can't have been like those ones.' He scratched his ear. 'Why would the Nazgûl have a mirror though? If it had Power, would Sauron not want it himself? Like the Palantir?'

'Remember Gandalf had feared something in the Mirror even older than Sauron,' Merry said. 'What would that be, Legolas?'

Legolas' hand stopped stroking Glaurung. 'There was only one thing I know that is older, more terrifying than Sauron…and that is Morgoth,' he said slowly. 'He was the Dark Lord before Sauron. Morgoth killed the King of Elves over the Sea and stole the Silmarils that were made by Feanor…He is supposed to have made the Orcs.' Legolas pulled a face for the thought disturbed him more than he would admit, even though Morgoth was just a name to him from the deep Past, Ages ago. 'I cannot imagine anything worse than Sauron,' he said slowly and scratched Glaurung's ears thoughtfully. 'I wonder what Gandalf thinks the Mirror can do?'

'And Kustîg already knew about it, didn't he?' Pippin reminded them.

'Yes,' Merry agreed. 'But it was Bearos who told Faramir that. If he hadn't said, nobody would have even connected Kustîg with the Mirror's theft.' He pulled on his pipe and then blew out a long thin stream of smoke.

Legolas's hand fell still on Glaurung's fur and she grunted softly in disapproval. Did that mean that Kustîg knew, wondered Legolas, and told Bearos? Or that Bearos knew and told Kustîg…Or that Bearos knew and told Faramir that Kustîg knew? Whatever the truth of it was, certainly Bearos knew that the Mirror was somehow important…And there was something about Bearos that reminded Legolas of Grima Wormtongue, something in the way his gaze slid over Legolas, like oily hands. Something in the way he stood too close to Aragorn, or Faramir, and slithered away when Legolas was near.

Glaurung yawned, her sharp little teeth gleamed. Her eyes screwed up and she sighed and settled back down. Pippin laughed. 'You're not going to be moving!' he said, amused.

There was a creak of the garden gate and Legolas lifted his head to listen. He carefully removed Glaurung's sharp little teeth that she sank into his hand when he placed her in the basket they were trying to get her to use instead of the most comfortable chair, best pillow, middle of whichever bed someone was trying to get into.

Then came the knock on the front door. Merry and Pippin looked up but Legolas was already along the passageway and opening the door.

A messenger boy stood outside and when Legolas appeared at the door almost as soon as he had knocked, the boy's mouth made a round 'oh' of astonished surprise.

'Good morning,' said Legolas.

The boy gasped again and Legolas frowned slightly, wondering if he had some injury that made him open and close his mouth like a little fish. He realised he was very tall compared with such a small boy and knelt on one knee and leaned forwards concerned, looking the boy in the eye and scrutinising him intently. This seemed to make the child even worse and he stopped even closing his mouth but just let it hang open, gaping.

Legolas gently put his finger under the boy's chin and closed his mouth, wondering if he could keep it closed. It seemed he could.

'Is this for one of us?' he prompted, gesturing to the scroll that was scrunched up in the child's hand. The boy nodded mutely and Legolas gently took it from him and scanned the wax seal.

It was Gimli's!

Legolas ripped open the scroll. It read:

'Legolas, things are afoot. Better you had come quickly. Gimli.'

Legolas slipped three coins into his hand. The gold glinted between the boy's thin fingers and he glanced down. The boy stared for a moment and then suddenly sat down on the step and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. His shirt was worn and grubby, Legolas noticed and was suddenly angry that Faramir employed this child who was so poor he could not eat, and had not a clean shirt though he was in the service of the King. Legolas resolved to bid Pippin speak to Aragorn about this scandalous neglect this very day.

But he had in his pocket a clean white handkerchief that Frodo had given him and that bore his own father's sigil. So he pushed it into the boy's hand. 'You might want to just rub that smudge of dirt off your face before you return to the palace,' he said. 'And you had better come and have some breakfast.'

Merry and Pippin were delighted to hear that a message had arrived from Gimli.

'It's odd though,' said Pippin, helping the boy, who was called Tuillin it seemed, to toast and butter and honey which dripped down the child's fingers and onto his shirt. 'It's all right,' Pippin interrupted himself to reassure Tuillin. 'We have lots of clothes that will fit you, haven't we Merry.' Merry nodded and put another piece of toast on Tuillin's plate.

'What's odd?'

'Well, Gimli's message. The words. You'd expect a bit more really. Like, I'll meet you in Pelargir or something. You don't even know if he means Pelargir or Umbar.'

Legolas cocked his head. 'Hm. But you know Gimli. Few words. I'll see if there is news of them in Pelargir before I leave for Umbar.'

Merry and Pippin looked at each other. 'Legolas, you really shouldn't go to Umbar.'

Legolas paused and looked at their kindly concerned faces. 'Very well. I will not go to Umbar if it makes you unhappy.'

'I do not think Gimli would ask you to go to Umbar,' Merry said thoughtfully. 'So he must be in Pelargir after all. Perhaps they have found something.'

'It does sound like it,' Pippin agreed.

Legolas smoothed out the message and read it once more. He could hear Frodo and Sam stirring upstairs for all four hobbits were to visit Beregond and his son. His heart leapt at the idea that he might be near the Sea, that he might see that gleaming stretch of water meeting the sky, and hear the gulls mewling and crying on the wind.

0o0

His heart was light as he shouldered his great bow and quiver, and he made his way up to the King's Mews, on the seventh level, near the Palace of the Stewards. The Mews was the last building and nestled against the shelter of the city wall, behind which was the chasm that separated the city from the rocky outcrop that was the Hallows with its tombs of the Stewards and Kings. This was amongst the wild scrubland, streams and dismal gullies and channels of icy water.

Legolas sang as he went and many folk turned their faces towards him with a smile of astonished wonder as he passed.

As he entered the King's Mews, he saw one or two grooms who nodded a greeting as he passed and the horses turned their heads and whickered in excitement and pushed at the doors of their stalls, reaching their long necks towards him. He laughed and greeted them in delight for he had not visited the Mews for a few days now. He thought how Arod would enjoy the freedom of galloping over the plains and shaking loose the confines of the city. And he realised how he too felt confined, how much he needed to be out on the plains and with a huge sky over him rather than in this city of stone.

He walked the full length of the Mews to where Arod had been stalled but saw no Rohan horse leaning towards him. He frowned and looked back over his shoulder, scanning the horses he had already passed.

'Ah! My lord Legolas!'

He turned to see the Chief Ostler approach, wiping his hands on the leather apron he wore. He smelled of saddle soap and leather oil.

'You are looking for your mount, my lord? I had orders from the Steward's house to let some of them out in the orchards of the Lebinnin,' the ostler said with an apologetic bow. 'They mentioned Arod specifically and I confess, my lord, I did not think to send you word but assumed you had asked for this yourself.'

Legolas squashed his disappointment for he knew that Arod deserved his freedom and would enjoy running free in a herd over the fields and orchards that had survived the siege. It was just too far to go to retrieve him, so he turned his head towards the remaining horses.

'I beg you do not be concerned. Arod well deserves his rest. But I am going to Pelargir and although I can go on my own two feet, I need speed.'

The ostler smiled and nodded in understanding. 'Well we have many fine beasts here, my lord. Choose one. Any beast that you choose will be blessed.' He bowed and smiled. Legolas looked along the row of glossy, handsome horses.

'You breed good stock here. All are good beasts.'

A voice came from across the yard. A woman calling to the ostler.

'Then take your time, my lord. My wife is calling me for I have another important client.' He grinned. 'I will send a boy to help if you will.'

'No need.' Legolas smiled back. 'I do not use saddle nor bridle.'

'Very well.' The man nodded and retreated, smiling and untying his apron, he slung it over the back of a stall door. A chestnut horse leaned its head over the stall door and started nibbling at the strings with a faraway look in its brown eyes as if it thought about the taste of the string.

Legolas stroked its soft nose and it focused its eyes upon him enquiringly. 'What is your name, fellow?' Legolas asked the horse, amused. 'Aeglos,' Legolas read. It was chalked onto a board. 'A good name.'

He began to slide the bolt across the stall door when cold air lightly touched the back of his neck. There was an icy wind drifting through the mews. The smell was musty, of cold and empty tombs. As if the occupants did not sleep but walked the earth.

Immediately every horse stamped and turned their head towards the far end of the mews, nostrils flaring in fear. Legolas already had his bow strung and arrow drawn.

There was the lightest scuff of boots on stone.

A whisper of thin black robes.

Every hair on his head prickled, every nerve was as taut as his bowstring. The horses stamped more loudly and whinnied nervously. Wind came out of nowhere and whisked up leaves, blowing them into the mews.

Thin light cut through the dimness. A figure stood at the far end of the mews. Its white face was elongated, jaw dropped, like it was screaming, but no sound came. Its eyes were hollows and its black robe rippled like water in the wind, like it was worn thin. Like a shroud.

Then the ghoul fled, banging the door shut behind it.

Legolas hesitated for a bare moment and then leapt after it. His leather boots flew over the worn smooth stones and the horses whinnied and shied in their stalls as he passed. He threw open the door and hurtled through it. Already the ghoul was gone; he cast about and then caught the flutter of a black shroud disappearing round a corner of a little used yard. He flew after it, found himself at a dead end with the city walls towering up around him. There was nowhere else the ghoul could have gone but up and over. He had seen it before, climbing the steep sides of the Rath Dínen. He shoved his bow into his quiver and checked that his knives were in place and then leapt up and scaled the wall in pursuit. His fingers dug into the mortar and his toes found holds, and he hauled himself astride the thick city wall.

He looked over the chasm that separated the city from the limestone outcrop that was the Hallows. A mist hung eerily so that the great mausoleums looked like islands in a still, grey lake. To his left was the Rath Dínen, its tall, elegant arches bridging the Hallows to the city. He was not far from where he had found Ioralas' body, he realised.

And there, already reaching the bottom of the buttressed walls of the city, was the ghoul. For a moment only, its face turned up towards him, its mouth agape and eyes hollow, and then it fled down into the darkness of the chasm, clinging to the damp rocks and scrambling over the cold streams that spilled through the gullies and cracks in the stone.

Legolas took a deep breath and sprang from the top of the wall, his feet touched the smooth sides once and he somersaulted away, spinning down and then again, bending his knees as Thalos had taught him when descending the great beeches in the Wood. Except there were no branches helping him down, breaking a fall. Just hard white stone. He felt the second his momentum spilled into a fall, his somersault too fast, uncontrolled, his feet slipped against the wall for a third time and he could barely control it. He hit the ground hard, jarring his knees but managed to keep on his feet though he skidded along the wet rocks. Only the scrubby heather and gorse stopped his falling further.

Already over the other side of the chasm was the black spidery shape of the ghoul, scrambling madly up the limestone outcrop. No so far away, thought Legolas. Not as fast as before, perhaps?

He leapt forwards and grabbed at the rocks, slipped and skidded and scrambled his way down into the damp dark of the chasm. Quickly he found himself at the bottom of the chasm and looking up, he could see an easy way to scramble over the limestone boulders, through icy cold streams and up the other side. His fingers and hands were scratched and sore as he scrambled as fast as he could and suddenly he was out of it and amongst the rocks and boulders of the Hallows.

The ghoul was ahead of him, its black robes streaming behind like smoke. It fled before him and suddenly it disappeared.

Legolas skidded to a halt.

And then his sharp eyes saw an almost hidden crack in the rocks. A gully, dark and dripping with water from above, cut deeply between the rocks.

Legolas drew his knife and slowly, cautiously entered the gully. He made no sound. Water dripped on his head, ran down his neck, icy cold. Beneath his feet, the stones were wet and slippery. The gully went deeper then, and slowly the rock closed over him and it became a tunnel and the light disappeared.

He felt his pupils dilate hugely, like a cat's, so he could make out the dim shape of tunnel ahead of him. Silently he edged forwards, alert and attuned to the slightest breath of air, the slightest movement. He could hear something ahead of him…and carefully stepped on wet rocks. One tipped slightly under his weight.

There was a scrape of stone or metal ahead of him and he froze. A drift of air came back to him, and upon it was the cold smell of old tombs. He paused, breathing hard as fear surged through him. He had one hand on the wet rock, the other clasped about the ivory hilt of his white knife. But I am in the Hallows, he told himself. The Houses of the Dead, the Kings and Stewards. And I am not afraid of the Dead, he reminded himself. The Nazgûl are vanquished by Eowyn and Merry, by Elrohir, he told himself with a flood of warmth and adoration. Elrohir would not be afraid.

It gave him courage and he took another step, creeping forward silently. And then his fingers were not groping along rough rock but stone that was smooth and well hewn. He frowned and then realised he must be beneath the tombs. Under his feet the way was paved and his passing easier, but he paused.

Silence…but the air felt oily and he had a sense that the tunnel was closing around him. The air was thin. He felt his scalp prickle and his heart pounded. Blood surged in his veins. It is only fear, he told himself again, as Laersul had done many times, in the South, when the Nazgûl were screaming, thin wailing shrieks around them.

In the Wood, the depths of Winter and Thalos' patrol had not returned, Anglach and Naurion with him. Legolas had led the search, found them surrounded by Orcs and the Nazgûl on their way. The Elves had fled through the frosted trees, over the snow, skittered over the thin ice of a frozen pond. It is only fear, Thalos had said and Legolas said back. Fear.

He said it now to himself as he hefted his knife in his hand. The other hand trailed over the smooth carved stone, found iron. The Nazgûl are gone, he repeated to himself, but his fingertips prickled as they had when the Nazgûl were near.

A gate? Slightly open, as if someone, something had just passed.

This must be the way in, he thought. A gate leading into the crypt itself. There seemed to be no lock on the gate, though a bolt slid easily, as if well oiled.

For a moment he wondered if he should not simply close the gate and return for help. This is the ghoul's egress, he thought and stepped within.

Did he imagine there was a sound from the tunnel coming from behind him now? A flutter in the dark like a thin black shroud.

He turned his head and glanced back for a moment only. He hardly dared to breathe, listening like a fox.

Silence.

And then he crept forward, inching slowly, one hand on the smooth stone wall, the other clenched about his knife.

The darkness closed about him completely now and even his eyes, so used to seeing in the dark world of Mirkwood, were blind. The silence was immense. There was not a sound.

He stood for a long time, simply listening, letting the air drift around him so he knew the smallest flutter, the slightest breath. Nothing.

There was only the smell of tombs. But I do not fear the Dead, he told himself again. Here he was, in the crypt of the Kings and Stewards of Gondor, where one day Aragorn would lie.

I have lost my quarry, he realised at last, and leaned for a moment against the stone wall of the tunnel. But he could not give up quite so quickly, and besides, he felt the air had changed slightly and knew that a wider space was ahead of him.

He pushed himself away from the wall and still silent, but walking faster now, he followed the tunnel towards the fresher air. And then the wall turned sharply and he knew that here was a second tunnel branching off the one he was in. This new one was rougher-hewn and the strokes and cuts felt newer, not softened by time and erosion.

The slightest drift of colder air touched his face, the slightest sound, the flutter of a robe? The scuff of a foot against stone? It came from the new tunnel and with a thumping heart, he edged forwards down the new tunnel.

His fingers drifted over iron again but he knew he had not become lost and walked in a circle, returning again to the gate. This must be a different gate, he thought, feeling the bars of it, an iron grille gate. It was open and pushed back against the stone wall. He took a step forwards and peered through it.

A little way ahead of him he thought there was a gleam of strange light, the merest glimmer. He took one step past the iron grille gate. The light seemed to flicker and something moved ahead of him.

His knife was in his hand and he hefted it slightly, took another step forward so he was past the iron grille door. The strange light flickered eerily before him, like moonlight reflecting on a pool one might find in the haunted woods. He thought he saw a shape in the darkness ahead of him, stepping towards him though it was not the ghoul, he was sure.

He took one more step and the figure took an identical hesitant step towards him. He stopped. It stopped.

He was too late to turn and stop the clang that resounded triumphantly through the dark as the iron grille slammed shut behind him. He sprang about, hurling his knife unerringly through the bars of the gate but it clattered uselessly against the stone of the tunnel beyond.

Legolas leapt too late to the gate and clutched at the iron bars seeking to wrench them open, but through the iron bars the ghoul's face appeared. It was stretched and elongated and the features slipped horrifically and slid as if they were melting and then solidifying. There were moments when the face became recognisable and the features of a Man slipped over it and then were gone. But for those brief moments Legolas recognised the face of the Man known as Bearos.

A rictus of a smile wrenched itself over Bearos' lips, more like a scream than a smile. Legolas took a step back in horror but in the darkness, a glimmer of faint light came from somewhere and Legolas saw that Bearos held another door, not a barred gate but slab of heavy iron. He would slam it shut, Legolas thought and a scream struggled in the pit of his belly. He was in a cell, a dungeon, an oubliette. This second door would close over the iron grille like a slab of stone.

'Release me!' Legolas commanded, but the Man's jaw trembled and gibbered incoherently and his eyes were bright with madness. From behind him stepped two figures but Legolas saw that these were Men. In the faint light, he recognised the guard, Maltök, but Maltök's face was impassive, his mouth slack and his eyes empty, dead. Legolas took another step back then in horror and Bearos' jaw gibbered again like some mad thing.

How Bearos had managed to escape him, he could not fathom: even though Bearos looked so distorted, so unlike one, he was still a Man.

'Not so feisty now, my lord!' Bearos sniggered uncontrollably. 'But you haven't even got to the best bit.' He sniggered again, his shoulders shaking, eyes even brighter, and for the first time in his long life, Legolas was genuinely afraid of a Man. There was madness in him, an alienness that he was used to seeing in Orcs. But Orcs were not mad. They were full of hate and you could not reason with them. This was something different entirely.

'What do you mean?' he asked slowly, a feeling of dread reached deep into him. He was trapped. Deep underground. No one knew he was here. No one. There was no way out.

And then a finger of ice stroked the back of his neck as it had before and he turned his head with abject terror. Something flickered at the back of the cell he was locked in. Dim light skittered around the edges of one place in the cell and then seemed to fall into a vast emptiness. A face swam towards him out of the vast darkness, pale, eyes huge and frightened, framed by long hair, pale and gleaming. It blinked as he did and he realised it was himself he saw.

A mirror.

A mirror was at the back of his cell.

The mirror from Minas Morgul.

He staggered back, lips parted and breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The darkness in the Mirror was absolute, and yet it still coalesced and seemed to gather itself. A long sigh that was a hiss. A face appeared. Not his. Skeletal, empty eye sockets, grinning teeth.

 _Yôzâira._

 _We have you now._

0o0o0


	24. Chapter 24 The Three

Thank you as always to Anarithilen for her brilliant contribution.

It's been so long since I updated this- but I am already ahead with the next 2 chapters as well which will take us back to Legolas. But first…

Chapter 24: The Three

In the moonlight, Galadriel sketched a sign over the polished surface of the Glass. Elrohir and Elladan had arrived in Lothlorien and she had gathered her grandchildren to her like jewels, sensing something different in all of them. For Arwen, there was an anticipation, a breathless excitement only tempered by her father's sadness and loss. But in her grandsons too something had changed and it was not just that they had been to war. She had seen that too many times over her long, long life. No. Something fundamental had changed, especially in Elrohir and she wanted to know what it was. She did not dare push at him, seek to invade his thoughts. He was too powerful. That made her smile slightly, proudly, for he was in truth, most like her.

The obsidian surface of the Glass glimmered and trembled and the moonlight reflected upwards, cast silver light upon her own face. She stared at herself, at the still unlined face. There were no lines or sagging skin as mortals showed, but there was grief there nonetheless. In her face, her eyes, was great age, in the weight of her gaze, in the sorrow and loss and bitterness that lay behind it.

Ah, Artanis, she thought. Where are you now? The girl who had run faster, shot arrows more accurately than all her cousins, than any man, who had refused Feanáro the strands of her hair but who became the woman who gave three to a dwarf. Artanis was long gone, but Galadriel remained. Where would she go now? Would she fade like the song of a bird that disappears into the Wood so that only an echo remains?

There was dread at what was to come: the fading. And in spite of everything, she could not go back as a beaten prisoner, admitting she was wrong, admitting defeat. And she would not bow her head in penitence. She could not.

She cut Nenya across the Glass. _Show me,_ she whispered. _Show me what is to come…_

It showed her Aman. It showed her the tall towers and polished halls of Tirion, the sterile boredom where a woman could not rule…But there was too the murmur of the Sea, its rush and sweep, the white gulls tossed up by the wind.

For in spite of her defiance, it was still Home. She longed for it as much as she fought the shame of return.

Celebrian was there. A sharp pain stabbed her womb. Her child. She clenched her fist to her womb and bowed her head, fought the loss and yearning.

And then, as if unlocked by her pain, the Glass shot through with light and the threads of Time began to part and unravel. She peered into the spaces and through the obsidian star-blasted glass into Time, through Time, beyond into those places that only curvë understood.

The Glass seemed to splinter into white dust: ash first, from the burning ships, and then snow.

She knew this; the Glass had returned to this over and over since Ash Nazg was destroyed.

 _Why do you show me this? Again!_ she cried.

She knew how snow hardened into the bitterness of the Ice. Cold as the Helcaraxë she was now. Hard. Bitter as when she stood upon the shores of Endor for the first time and the light of the Trees in her eyes, standing with Finrod and Fingon, thin and hard all of them, swearing revenge upon Feänor and his sons. Bitter with cold and loss. Furious at their betrayal and abandonment. Fierce with revenge and lust.

As if her thoughts summoned him, a lovely face came into the Glass. Nelyo. Dashing, handsome Nelyo - everyone was in love with him. Until the Betrayal. Fingon had sworn to kill him but of course by that time, Nelyo was gone and in his place the ruined, tortured bitter Maedhros. Now his grey-silver eyes looked past her, as if he were standing on the other side of the Glass and did not see her. Every time she had opened the Glass since the One Ring had been destroyed, it had opened upon this place, upon him, floating and insubstantial- a ghost of memory.

'Why do you show me him? Again and again? It is too long since he fell into the Dark! What good can come of this? she demanded, angry. 'I refused Ash Nazg for _this?_ A mere vision of the Past? I turned my back on the Power that Ash Nazg offered for this!'

The lost Curvë of the Noldor was _nothing_ compared to what she had rejected when Frodo offered the One Ring; she had stood and looked across the heavens scattered with stars and saw such things! Giant stars, unimaginably huge globes of gases that burned dully. Tiny white stars that were collapsing, falling ever and ever inwards until… until…

She, Galadriel, could not comprehend what she saw, but the Dark Queen that she would have become had reached out her hand and harnessed the energy of it all, threw her power across the Sea and there ripped open the veil that cloaked Aman. She had reached out with her other hand and drew them all back; beautiful, beloved Finrod, healed his scarred and broken body and restored him. And there was sweet Angrod, Orodreth – and behind them came her glorious cousins…and each one knelt before her and worshipped her as they would the Valar. Except they never had, she thought.

 _Is this why you show me this?_ she demanded. _Maedhros in the Dark as a taunt to what I could have done had I taken Ash Nazg? Is that it?_

She threw her head up and lifted her chin defiantly. _But I passed the test,_ she declared in bitter triumph. Bitter disappointment for what could have been. _I passed… though it was so …hard!_ For she had turned her back on the chance to bring back her beautiful girl, her daughter, to turn back the sands of Time and change…everything. Even Sauron did not know how to do that but she had learned, the hard lessons, the crushing mastery of the Rings. But she had closed the way by rejecting the One Ring.

Nenya chimed. Her song curled about Galadriel slowly, coiled about her.

 _What could you do if you had Narya and Vilya too…you could not just part the Threads of Time to gaze. You could turn it back…Was that not what Ash Nazg promised?_

She stirred her finger across the black glass and cut it with light from Nenya. _Vilya? But she is held by Elrond…_

Obstinately the Mirror showed her Maedhros again but this time he was in such a dark place that at first she thought it was Angband. The Dark was absolute, leeching away his colour until he seemed sepia, pale and insubstantial…A ghost, floating in the Night. Beautiful in spite his ruin, the puckered scar at the corner of his eye, the one hand, the grim determination in those eyes that became first haunted after the Tears, and then empty until there was nothing; madness. Suicide. Once he had what he had fought for all those ages, the Silmaril, there was nothing left to live for.

She had not found pity in her heart for him until she had lost the only things that ever meant anything to her; her child, and now her beloved forester. She understood better now: what would she not give, what would she not do to bring back her sweet girl? Kin-slaying would be nothing to her. Three times? Four? She would have killed her own brothers and eaten their hearts if it brought her child back…

 _Not true._

 _Not all._

 _Not Findárato,_ Nenya whispered.

Galadriel did not speak. _No. Not him._

 _You could have brought them both back had you taken Ash Nazg._

 _This was not Nenya's voice,_ she thought with shock. _This is …Vilya._

A long sigh. Like a homecoming. With a little shiver of fear, she realised this was the Rings themselves talking, not her fellow bearers. So, they were sentient after all…she had suspected as much after encountering Ash Nazg when Frodo brought him into the Wood.

 _What is your purpose?_ she asked, looking into the glass and she drew Nenya over the surface. _What is it that He wanted you for?_ She asked but now she already knew…She felt Vilya turn towards her, felt Narya spark. Tell us.

Suddenly revelation struck her: Celebrimbor had a purpose in making these three.

They needed to be together.

The Mirror shot through the lights and sparks and the surface trembled as if it were a pool and the wind passed over it. An image emerged: the dark fang of a ruined tower that loomed up against a bloody sunset. She had dismissed it before as overly dramatic, for she knew what she saw; Phellanthir. She had seen it every time she looked into the Glass since Sauron had fallen.

And now she leaned close. _Why do you keep showing me this?_

A sudden spike of energy surged through Nenya and shot into the Glass. Galadriel cried out in fear. 'Do not touch the water!' as if to Nenya or to herself. But the Glass shimmered and seemed to open like a flower or a clever mechanical toy that they used to make in Ost-In-Edhil. She gasped in astonishment.

She never knew!

The Glass was merely the first surface and now it parted easily and cleanly, drew back to frame a second surface like it had put hands around the darkness of Space and Time. Beneath was the second Glass. Even more highly polished. Light seemed to fall into it and she thought it looked like the same ore that Aícanaro was made from. Obsidian but deeper, more pliable.

She wanted to touch it and then suddenly Nenya pulled her physically towards the Glass, forced Galadriel's hand to move and cut across the surface of the new surface and then…suddenly Galadriel was standing on the edge of the Night like she had when Ash Nazg had offered her the World. The skies stretched, arced away above her; she stood on the rim of Arda. Beyond the boundaries of the World where no Elf could go. Above and around her was Melian's Girdle, the belt of stars that seemed to encircle the Earth, and beyond the Girdle were great galaxies, spirals and faraway, strange elliptical shapes of white light, and between them, darkness that seemed to draw the light to itself.

 _These are the holes in the fabric of Time and Space,_ Nenya whispered. _Beyond them is the Void. Nothing comes out…._

 _Nothing? I do not care about that,_ she said strongly _. All I want is to change the Past, to bring my daughter home. Eru could not have wanted this! Arda Marred?_

Silence. Nenya did not speak but Galadriel felt her hesitation. She pushed. _Nothing comes out of the Dark?_ she prompted.

A silver-blue light glimmered behind her, just beyond her sight and she recognised the sensation that was Vilya. _Ontanë thought there was a Way…if he could but find it._

Ontanë? She had not heard Nenya say such a word before.

And now on her right, she was aware that a fiery-red light was behind her; Narya.

 _Creator._

 _Creator?_ Galadriel frowned. _Celebrimbor?_

 _That was your name for him, yes. He made us to find the Way through. He wanted us to find it. You can see how the hyellë-vírin can part the threads of Time and Space and show you the dark places of the heavens._

 _Yes._

Hyellë-vírin? Galadriel realised that this must be the name the Rings gave themselves… or was it the name they gave to the Glass?

Galadriel could suddenly see how those darker places pulled light into them, absorbed all. Vilya showed her the galaxies, stars beyond those seen on earth, the depths of the Universe, the Secret Fire…and the doors between worlds that could be opened if only one knew, if only one had the Power…She frowned and peered into the depths of the Glass. Those whirling elliptical shapes that she knew now were galaxies beyond the stars, between them, there was immense darkness…

 _Those are the doors,_ Nenya whispered, _there are ways to open them. Ontanë had found a way, made the Doors that opened up the Dark_ …

Galadriel understood… though she could not yet articulate for Nenya, Vilya, Narya had shown her but they did not have words. Together the Three could open the doors. If one knew where they were.

It was a pity Elrond had Vilya.

Galadriel grew very still. Celebrimbor found a way to open up the Dark…to find a way back from the Void?

She fell back, staring at the Mirror. The Glass was dark again now, immense darkness that swallowed all light. Is this…?

 _Ye…eee…ssss. A Way Back….._

In the dark, was another voice, another face and for a moment, she thought she saw something that was neither Phellanthir nor Maedhros; the glimmer of light that drifted over naked skin, skin that was..marked, she thought, in ink and blood… strange markings and the shape of a man twisting in bonds…long pale-gold hair, writhing in pain and ecstasy…a sacrifice.

'What is this?' she demanded.

 _Danger,_ Nenya cried.

 _Danger! They are here!_ cried Narya

Vilya screamed.

Galadriel covered her ears, staggered back from the Glass with the Three shrieking. It was a cold, screaming noise that felt like breaking glass, fingernails on glass, shattering, terrifying.

0o0o

When she came around Elrond leaned over, and she felt the white light of Vilya bathe her. She closed her eyes again and listened.

 _What happened_ , she asked Nenya but it was Vilya who answered.

 _If the Way is opened, it is open not only to us._ Vilya's diamond white light was muted, softer and Galadriel felt the healing warmth envelop her. Healing. It was always Vilya's intention, Vilya's role. As Nenya's was Knowledge, Curvë. And Narya was the Opener. The Key.

 _I do not understand,_ Galadriel thought. _What are you supposed to heal?_ She had always thought Celebrimbor had intended to heal the whole of Arda, Arda Marred and had dismissed him as impossibly arrogant, typically Feanorian, to suppose so much. The chime of the Three told her she had indeed misunderstood.

 _Then tell me!_ she pressed but she met a wall of metal links, chainmail, impermeable.

 _Not yet,_ Vilya replied. _You cannot know all just yet. There are things you must do first._

Another voice now that she knew was Narya. Y _ou must act now. Bring us together. Bring us close. Summon Ólorin, bring Elrond. You must ride. Fast before the breach is made. Ontanë did not intend this._

 _I know not of what you speak,_ she said.

And the Three sang to her, notes that wound about her consciousness and suggested images but she still did not understand for the images were still of Maedhros, still of the dark fang of Phellanthir, but there was also the white towers that flew with the banner of Isildur's Heir, of Aragorn and she knew it was Minas Tirith and whither they were bound. But she did not understand even now.

 _You will._ It was a promise made by the Three.

0o0o

Erestor leaned his elbow on the back of the elegant chair upon which he was seated, legs crossed insouciantly, and pushed his hand through his lustrous hair. From the balcony upon which he sat, he could see the little family group on the talan below of Elrohir, Arwen and Elladan. They were laughing at something, Elladan's head thrown back and laughing with that careless joyousness that Erestor loved, and Elrohir laughing with him, at him. Erestor was astounded at the changes in all of them, wondered how long it was since he had seen Elladan so carefree. How long since Elrohir had even laughed.

Elladan glanced upwards and noticing Erestor, raised his hand in greeting. Erestor nodded and smiled and Elladan turned back and said something to his siblings as if to leave and make his way to Erestor's side. He had already told Erestor that he needed to tell him something important and began to speak of something Mithrandir had found in Minas Morgul but Arwen had come and flung her arms about her brother and so distracted him. Now it was Elrond's arrival that drew Elladan back into the group; Elrond approached warily, as if he did not know quite what reception to expect.

Erestor leaned back, watching protectively, his heart wrenched. How tentatively Elrond joined his own children and how uncomfortably they moved to let him into their circle.

But they did let him in where before Elrohir would have flung himself away and gone striding off elsewhere. Now he stayed and exchanged a glance with his father, the slightest of smiles on his lips. And so all thought of Elladan's news fled and he watched his little family.

'You have a silly smile on your face,' a voice observed.

He did not look up. His old friend pulled up a chair and sat beside him. 'And you do not?' Erestor said.

Glorfindel huffed softly, agreeing. 'I admit I am happy beyond belief that all our boys are safe and well.' He took a long breath in and let it out slowly. The relief in that sigh was all that Erestor felt- like his heart would burst in his chest. 'Aragorn is King. I can hardly believe it.'

Erestor knew his smile was even wider, even siller. He felt tears prick at his eyes. I am a daft old man, he thought but only said, 'I hope he judges and administers and rules well.'

'He has had the best tutors,' Glorfindel said softly and Erestor blinked and swallowed. 'You have taught him well.'

 ** _'_** ** _I_** had the best tutors,' Erestor said, unable to help himself. 'You will find it hard to admit, but Maedhros ruled kindly, wisely and fairly but with so little money, under siege and fewer men every Winter.'

Glorfindel said nothing but he frowned slightly and looked down at his hands. Usually any mention of Maedhros resulted in a slight tightening of Glorfindel's mouth and a flare of nostrils as the Elf-lord suppressed his antipathy to the House of Feanor. Perhaps he pitied Maedhros after all this, Erestor thought defiantly. Perhaps seeing Maedhros through the Mirror in Phellanthir, trapped forever in the Dark, had mellowed Glorfindel towards Erestor's own lord?

His own mood changed now and with a deep despair, Erestor remembered how he and Glorfindel had entered the ruined tower of Phellanthir, the dust that rose at their passing like flocks of ghostly birds and settled again lightly over the abandoned and haunted chambers, the empty market place and merchants' halls of what had once been chased in gold and mithril, lit by the great globes of light. It has once been Celebrimbor's third greatest city.

Together Erestor and Glorfindel had ascended the wide stone staircase to the great Óromardë, the high hall of Celebrimbor's learning and found there the splintered glass underfoot and only one remaining Mirror intact. And as if Glorfindel's presence had summoned it, his nemesis, the Balrog, Ruinátoró, whom Glorfindel had slain upon the Cristhorn and which had slain Glorfindel in turn, had appeared in the darkness on the other side of the Mirror. How the Balrog had roared and bellowed so the ancient stones of Phellanthir shook and echoed with its trumpeting and violence as it pounded against the Glass! How the Glass had bowled and stretched under the pressure from the demon of fire! How Erestor had thought it must break and the Valarauki leap from the Eternal Night into this world once again and yet…and yet it did not break.…

And then, the silver-blue sparks that had coalesced into the shape of Erestor's beloved lord, Maedhros- and even now, he could not believe it.

Bowing his head slightly to turn inwards, Erestor thought again of the battle between the Balrog and Maedhros beyond the Glass, how he had slid the stolen morgul blade into the Glass and Maedhros had used it against the balrog and it had crashed against the Glass, blackened and bleeding ichor as it fled.

Erestor lifted his head and sighed for Maedhros too had been ….what? Destroyed by the Balrog in turn? He had seemed to bleed light, for it was his fëa being torn apart… each particle feeling the loss of its whole. Each particle was a single note in the Song of the whole and it ached when torn apart, yearned to be one soul again. And Erestor could not forget the drifting lonely notes of Maedhros' Song, like a ship's bell in the mist. The loneliness, the pity of it. Erestor, wicked old Feanorian that he was, could not bear it.

A warm, living hand was on his shoulder as if Glorfindel too was thinking of that same time in Phellanthir. Erestor did not move but he tasted salt on his lips and knew that he wept.

He shook himself. 'I cannot forget,' he said softly, even though he watched Elrond still. 'I will go back there and release my lord somehow from that dark and evil place where he is alone.'

Glorfindel said nothing.

'When I told Elrond that his dear father was trapped in that place, he was ready to ride there immediately,' Erestor continued. 'He would have brought the Tower itself down to break the Glass but something has stopped him. Some wisdom I do not see.'

Glorfindel pulled out a chair and seated himself beside his old friend. 'It is Vilya,' he said simply. 'Vilya stopped him I think. And he knew it was not the time, not with Sauron undefeated.'

Erestor turned his head and his amber eyes glowed in the strange half-light of Lothlorien. He had a wild and fey look about him. 'And now that Sauron is gone?' he asked.

Glorfindel pulled himself upright and breathed in a long breath. 'When we return from Minas Tirith,' he said, 'when we have seen Aragorn placed on his throne with Arwen at his side, then we will bring Galadriel and Mithrandir to the Tower of Phellanthir. We will free Maedhros from his prison. It is wrong that one of our kind be so doomed.'

Erestor slowly clenched his fists and bowed his head. 'Then I swear that I will make that so.'

Glorfindel closed his own hand over Erestor's. 'And I,' he said.

0o0o


	25. Chapter 25 A New Purpose

Recap: A Mirror has been found in Minas Morgul and taken to Minas Tirith. It is similar to one found by Erestor and Glorfindel in Phellanthir, the ruined city built by Celebrimbor and destroyed by Sauron long ago. In that Mirror, appeared the Balrog that slew Glorfindel and that he slew in turn. The Balrog tried to escape the Mirror to reach Glorfindel but something appeared in the Glass- it became clear that this was the spirit of Maedhros. He drove back the Balrog. (Told in Through a Glass Darkly)

(see chapter 4 of this fic for a quick reminder)

Bearos, a farmer from the Mindolluin, found Khamûl's ring (where Elladan cast it after Elrohir slew Khamûl). The Ring has brought him power but turned him into a mere creature of the Ring, a ghoul, which has drained the blood of its victims. Bearos stole the Mirror and now Gandalf, who knows what it is and its power, has gone to Umbar in pursuit, taking Gimli. Legolas has been lured into the Halls of the Dead by the ghoul and captured. He is in the cell with the Mirror from Minas Morgul.

Beta: Anarithilien.

 **Chapter 25: A New Purpose**

Erestor walked slowly along the elegant walkways that wound between the great mallorn trees, making his way towards the wide talans that spread through the trees at the heart of the city and that were the equivalent of the Hall of Fire and other public chambers in Imladris. It was evening and small groups of elves gathered on various talans and strolled along the walkways, sharing the gossip of the day and taking their ease. For the life of him, he could not tell what they did all day for he had found no kitchens, no weavers or forges and the elves here seemed to thrive nonetheless. There must be workshops and markets somewhere he thought, but clearly Caras Galadhon had no such common purpose as actually _providing_ for the Elves who lived here.

Elladan had laughed at him when he said this and promised him a tour but that had not materialised for Erestor had barely seen Elladan at all since he arrived; the grandson of Celeborn and Galadriel was much in demand and, after all, this was a wedding party. Elladan had promised to meet Erestor and Glorfindel here later, for there was some artefact that Mithrandir had brought to Minas Tirith that concerned him but they had not been alone for a minute. It would be a Palantir perhaps, mused Erestor.

Behind him came the noise of a group of young, excited Elves going the same way as he, for there would be dancing. He stepped aside to let them pass, inclining his head slightly and, noticing one young man's eyes widening at the eight-pointed star he wore blatantly embroidered on his sleeves and robe, Erestor flashed a wolfish smile, showed his white teeth. The young man hurried forwards with a worried look on his face. Clearly his reputation had preceded him, thought Erestor a little pleased at his own notoriety.

Following close behind were two maids hurrying along the walkway and Erestor stood aside for them too. They smiled and dipped their heads giggling as they passed.

'The sons of Elrond will be there as well as the Lord Tindómion!' one maid was saying to the other as they hurried along the walkway and the other cut her a flirtatious look. They giggled and flicked their long glossy hair.

Erestor followed gloomily.

 _I should be pleased,_ he told himself _. I should encourage these young folk so that Elladan finds one worthy of him, someone to whom he can give his heart._

His steps had slowed and he sighed. _And when Elrond departs these shores and I am free, I will go and alone be for the rest of my days until I find Maglor as I have sworn._

But it was a lonely existence to which he had condemned himself. And if he found Maglor, what then? Return to Imladris to watch it slowly abandoned and fall into ruin? For there would be no Elladan there. He would sail across the Sea to Valinor as certainly as Arwen would not. Of that, Erestor had always been sure.

A frisson of excitement rippling amongst the gathering on the wide talan below disturbed his gloomy thoughts and he leaned forwards to see the cause.

'Look, here they are!' a voice from the talan below cried and was joined by others in excitement as Elrohir escorted Arwen onto the talan and led her between the gathered Elves. Elladan followed his siblings a moment after, scanning the faces of the crowds as if looking for someone. Clearly, he did not find them for his handsome face fell in disappointment and he turned to Elrohir, asking him some question. In no time, they were surrounded by laughing, talking Elves, some from Imladris and others from Lothlorien.

At that moment, the Lord of the Golden Wood entered the talan and effortlessly seized his three grandchildren's attention. Elladan turned to him with a quick smile and Celeborn leaned towards him affectionately. Elladan was always a favourite here, thought Erestor fondly. Elrohir too remained and even joined in the laughter and seemed to be telling some amusing story for the entertainment of those around him.

Music had begun, ethereal, haunting rather than rousing and Erestor found it irritating. Slowly dancers made their way into the centre of the wide talan. He hated Lothlorien with its strange and endless half-light and slow time. It was like a boulder in a stream so that time slowed and slowed here, and outside the wood, the world rushed on, endlessly changing. He hated how cut off he felt, isolated, cocooned from danger and change and excitement- everything that had energy.

He smiled wryly for it was exactly what Elrohir said of Imladris.

A light riff of a melody struck up, more cheerful than before and astonishingly, Elrohir rose as if to join the dance. As he did, a crowd of pretty maids turned their heads excitedly. Elladan too rose and the pretty maids flashed and glimmered like a shoal of little coloured fish, but it was Arwen who took Elrohir's hand laughing as he led her amongst the dancers with playfully exaggerated courtesy. But Elladan took the hand of the nearest of the maids and led her alongside his siblings.

'It is a long time since I have seen Elrohir dance,' murmured Glorfindel from behind as he came to lean against the balustrade alongside Erestor. 'Even if it is only with Arwen.'

Erestor cocked his head. 'Something has changed him. And surely it is not the destruction of Sauron.'

Glorfindel grunted in agreement. 'Celeborn looks just as surprised,' he observed. Indeed, Celeborn looked on with gratified satisfaction as his grandchildren whirled about the dance floor.

It was a pity, Erestor thought, that Celeborn was such an old stick in the mud, and full of grudges and misery, constantly glaring at Erestor for his unashamed Fëanorion sigil and emblems, for he might have joined the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood once he had found Maglor, he thought wryly. As it was Celeborn had spotted Erestor watching from the walkway above and his mouth became a thin line of disapproval. To which Erestor responded by smiling very widely and gesturing elaborately to the festivities and dancing, nodding in exaggerated approval designed to irritate the Golden Wood's lord even more.

'You are doing it again,' observed Glorfindel.

'Hm?' said Erestor who knew exactly what he was doing.

'Provoking Celeborn. And in doing so, annoying Galadriel. And that will upset Elrond.'

'Unfair! Galadriel is nowhere to be found. Nor is Elrond. I am merely responding in a friendly manner,' Erestor grinned wolfishly. 'Anyway, Elladan wanted to speak with us and I am just letting him know we are here. Says he has something he needs to talk to us about. Something about Mithrandir finding an artefact in Minas Morgul and he is worried about it. Celeborn will hog him for hours.'

'Give them a chance to greet their family and friends,' Glorfindel said mildly and Erestor knew he was right.

There was a sudden leap in the music and the mood changed. Instead of threading its way carefully through the trees and dancers, it became quick and light. It seemed to lift the dancers like a wave and they rose laughing and swirling on the notes. Erestor found his foot tapping when an Elf cut across the view drawing his gaze and looking upwards towards the two Imladrians with an insolent gaze.

Tall, handsome in an arrogant way, full, sensual lips and knowing eyes caught Erestor's for a moment. The Elf tilted his head slightly in what Erestor recognised now as an invitation.

'Watch out for that one,' Glorfindel murmured. 'Haldir. One of the Marchwardens and they all have notorious reputations.

'Well, if he is not seeking you, then he must be looking at me.' Erestor raised an eyebrow at the Lorien Elf and the Marchwarden gave him an insolent smile.

'Hm,' Erestor said with sudden interest, 'If I did not know better, I would say that I was being invited for a little quiet supper by that one.' He flashed a wicked look at Glorfindel. 'I believe I am being seduced.'

Glorfindel said nothing but his face was disapproving and his lips pressed tightly together.

'Come on, Laurëfindilë, it is not like you have never had empty and meaningless sex!' Erestor said provocatively. 'Don't tell me that Tuor was the only man Idril…'

'You are an incorrigible and horribly corrupt man,' Glorfindel interrupted before he could finish. He pushed himself away from the balustrade and smoothed his hands over his tunic, pulled his sword belt straight. 'What about Elladan? What will he think if you go off with Haldir?' He faced Erestor and his bright fearless face was even a little sympathetic. 'If you think to drive Elladan away with this behaviour, you are right. It will. In that he will despise you as much as you despise yourself. Is that what you want?'

Erestor almost recoiled for those words stung but he had been the one to throw down the gauntlet by mentioning Idril, he could not complain now. He glanced over to where Elladan now stood, having left the dance. Celeborn's arm was slung about his shoulder affectionately and their heads bent together in conversation.

'He is better off thinking I am a horrible and incorrigible old lech,' Erestor said with conviction. 'And I am too sullied, blood-soaked. Corrupt.' He flashed a wolfish grin at Glorfindel that he did not feel. 'But with every intention of enjoying it.'

'Then you will forgive me if I miss out on this unpleasant little pretence at seduction between you and Haldir.' Glorfindel pushed himself away from the balustrade. 'If you will not attend to your own heart, Erestor, I cannot stand by and watch. I cannot believe that Galadriel will allow this dalliance with her Marchwarden and I do not want to be here when she squashes you most gratifyingly into a pulp …On the other hand, I might stay. It would be deeply satisfying.'

'If you stay my dear friend, it will be satisfying in the most glorious ways.' Erestor could not help goading Glorfindel further.

'No. You disgust me sometimes, Erestor, though I love you dearly but you are quite depraved.'

Erestor grinned, shoving aside the desperate self-loathing. 'I disgust myself more I promise you my friend. But I think you will find Haldir my equal in depravity.'

But at that moment, Elladan scanned the faces of the crowd again and this time, Glorfindel waved at him. When Elladan saw Erestor, his face changed, his grey eyes fastened upon Erestor as if seeing him for the first time and a smile of delight crossed the younger man's face. He murmured something to Celeborn who followed his gaze and said something in reply, drawing Elladan to one side. But Elladan shook his head and gently pulled away, and came towards them.

His long strides brought him quickly across the dance floor and many heads turned, eyes following his path, but he was either unaware or ignored them, leaping up the steps easily. With a delighted smile and cry of welcome, Elladan came towards Erestor first with his arms open.

Quickly Erestor enveloped Elladan in fatherly hug.

That is what I am, he told himself; an uncle, foster-father. Anything but lover… And he breathed in the scent of Elladan: freshness, earth, of moss in the rain.

'At last!' Elladan declared, face a little flushed.

From the dancing no doubt, thought Erestor. How handsome Elladan looked! Erestor smiled fondly for he could not help himself.

'I have had no time at all from my relatives whom I love very much of course but…' Elladan waved his hand as if that explained it all 'They can be a little overpowering. Come.' He beckoned them towards a quieter talan that overlooked the dance floor but was clearly designed for privacy.

It was smaller, secluded by a few cleverly arranged woven screens of silk, rich colours of Autumn in crimsons, gold and bronze. Two elegantly carved chairs stood side by side, and upon the polished wooden floor were sumptuous velvet cushions, made for lounging. Tindómion Maglorion was already there, his copper hair gleamed in the light and he was leaning upon one of the cushions already, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, a goblet of wine in one hand. A tall pitcher stood beside him and three goblets, already full.

Erestor inclined his head smiling. 'I see you have made yourself comfortable,' he grinned and showed his teeth. Tindómion showed his own right back but his grey eyes, almost silver in this strange light, gleamed with humour.

'I was expecting prettier company,' he said, gesturing to the filled goblets.

'Well, Glorfindel is here too,' Erestor replied and cast himself into one of the chairs, swinging one leg over the arm in a lewd pose that he knew would upset Glorfindel. But it seemed Glorfindel had said his piece and was not going to rise to the bait.

Glorfindel pulled the other chair a little away from Erestor and sat near Tindómion so Elladan settled on the cushions at Erestor's feet and leaned his arm across Erestor's knee. Which was not what Erestor wanted at all, but to push Elladan away would only cause comment and Glorfindel was watching him with wry amusement.

'We have been congratulating ourselves that Aragorn will be a kind and generous King,' Glorfindel said for he knew Erestor's mood and had decided to relent.

'And Arwen will bring logic and common sense to matters,' added Tindomion amused, as if he knew what was going on between them.

At that, Erestor did smile for he had taught Arwen well and she was perhaps his very best pupil, listening intently to everything he told her about managing a huge budget, about collecting taxes and being fair to all, about leading people and managing things so that everyone knew their role, what they had to do and had enough autonomy to get on and do it. He was proud of Arwen.

'There are others to help guide Aragorn too,' Elladan said with a nod of agreement with Tindomion. 'Faramir is the Steward now, Boromir's brother. He has his brother's qualities but it seems, none of his pride. There is Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth too,' he said and something in Elladan's voice alerted Erestor. His voice stroked the name of Imrahil and a flush came to his cheeks and he looked away. But Erestor saw there was a difference too in the way Elladan looked; more knowing, perhaps a little more confident. Erestor recognised that look; it was the look of someone who had discovered something about himself, had done things and lost a little innocence. It was the look of someone who was cradled in the thoughts of another, who was in love.

And in spite of his vow earlier and his promise to encourage Elladan to find his beloved, Erestor felt like he had been kicked in the belly. It made him unkind.

'I hope that Aragorn will have learned something about how not to rule from listening to Glorfindel's tales of Turgid,' he replied as provocatively as he could and the sting concealed the misery in his voice. Tindomion laughed loudly at that and Erestor went on as if he could not stop now. 'After all, a more sterile and boring environment than Gondolin I cannot image unless it be Lothlorien. It's all very well having hidden valleys and cities and things but Turgid's isolationist policy really did lead to some very bad decisions.'

Tindómion laughed again, louder, throwing his head back in a way that reminded Erestor of Fëanor but Glorfindel sighed dramatically. 'Are we really going to drag all that up again, now, today when we celebrate the End of the Darkness and beginning of the Age of Kings restored?'

Erestor humphed and considered. 'I do not know,' he said, trying to be irritating because it was a distraction from Elladan's new love.

'Then forgive me if I do not respond,' Glorfindel said with that quiet dignity that he always drew about him like a cloak and which Erestor wanted to tear down. But that was hardly fair; it was a faceless Prince in Gondor that he hated, not Glorfindel.

'Come, cease your endless baiting,' Tindómion said to Erestor. He turned to Elladan with a smile and said, 'You have been waiting for a chance to talk to them since you arrived. Now here we are wasting it with old and worn insults. Tell them about the Mirror.'

Instantly Glorfindel and Erestor's attention was on Elladan, all thoughts of the Prince of Dol Amroth fled.

'Mirror? What Mirror? demanded Erestor.

Elladan looked at each of them in turn. His whole demeanour had changed and he was deadly serious. 'That is the artefact I wanted to tell you about. Mithrandir found a mirror in Minas Morgul. High up in the tower itself. He had it brought to Minas Tirith where it lies hidden and secret. Only those who brought it down know of its existence and it is guarded night and day by the Tower Guard. No one looks upon it. But it disquieted me greatly. Why did the Nazgûl hoard a mirror?' he asked, agitated. He drew his arm back from Erestor's knee and half turned so he could look both his mentors in the eye. 'I think it is like the one you found in Phellanthir.'

Erestor could not think for a moment. 'Like the one in Phellanthir?' he echoed, staring at Elladan in horror.

Leaning forwards, Glorfindel said anxiously, 'What makes you think it is similar?'

Elladan rolled back to sit on his heels, resting his hands on his knees. 'It is the same size. The frame looked similar although you will understand I did not examine it closely…but it felt…I thought….' He shrugged. 'It just felt too strange that the Nazgûl should have such a thing.'

There was a silence while Glorfindel and Erestor stared at Elladan. Tindomion, who had not been in Phellanthir, watched their reactions. Now he leaned forwards and rested one arm upon his bent knee. 'What do you fear?' he asked Glorfindel, his pale grey eyes narrowed.

Glorfindel glanced at Erestor. 'It is a doorway into the Dark,' he said. 'There are terrible monsters and demons in there. Balrogs.'

'The Nazgûl?' asked Tindómion.

'Yes. I think so now. And Sauron himself,' answered Glorfindel.

Erestor closed his amber eyes briefly and when he opened them again, he said slowly, 'Morgoth.'

O0o0o

Elrond stroked Vilya pensively, head slightly bowed, his steps slow and steady. Galadriel leaned on his arm a little as he guided her carefully back to her own chambers and yet he could feel her great strength beneath the white samite sleeve of her gown. She had not yet spoken of what had befallen her in her garden where he found her, leaning over her Mirror, hands gripping the copper-plated edges and staring as if she had beheld some terror.

They walked carefully, Galadriel very straight and although she leaned upon him, to anyone watching, they seemed out for a mere stroll through the gardens of Caras Galadhon, over the elegant walkways that seemed to rest only on air as they wound through the great mallorns. The great boughs of the trees were laden with golden blossom and silver leaves, a dim reflection, he had once been told, of the Two trees in Aman where his present companion had been born. Sometimes he forgot her very great age, her immense wisdom, her knowledge and the deeds Galadriel had both committed and witnessed.

They approached her own chambers now, a series of wide talans connected by elegant winding stairways and screened by woven veils and curtains. Not that she needed physical privacy; should she choose, none would know if she were there or not. But her steps seemed more hesitant now and when she faltered, Elrond gallantly halted as if they were merely perusing the lights that slowly blinked on through the great city of Caras Galadhon.

At last she spoke.

'It is strange, she said, 'to have Nenya free of the threat of Sauron. He has always been there do you not think? Like Ungoliant, waiting for us to slip.'

So that was to be the way of it, Elrond thought. She would talk of the Three. Frankly. Business then.

'When the One was destroyed, Vilya almost exploded with joy.' He smiled for Vilya was like a companion to him. 'I heard Nenya sing,' he continued. 'And I felt Narya there too.'

She did not speak then. He glanced at her briefly but her eyes were fixed upon some distant point as if she were unaware of him. Then she took his arm once more and they proceeded again along the walkway. Lamps blinked on, one by one ahead of them, lighting their path.

Casting her a sidelong glance, Elrond said, 'There is great joy in Vilya that Sauron has gone and yet…there is some other purpose I feel. Sauron's defeat has merely enabled them to pursue this other purpose.' He frowned, unable to find the words to convey the strangeness of this sensation.

He had worn Vilya for many years but since coming to Lothlorien, something had changed. She felt different. More elated even than when Sauron fell. It had started as they passed through the Angle and through Hollin, as if she connected to the land where she was forged, in the minerals and ore of the earth. Insanely he wanted to talk to Gimli the Dwarf about it, thinking that a Dwarf alone might really understand how the earth itself reached up to Vilya, as if lightning were fused from sky and stone. But the elation had reached a crescendo when they had arrived in Lothlorien and he felt Vilya reach out to Nenya and connect.

He realised that Galadriel was watching him.

'You feel it too,' he observed and he met her eyes. 'Another purpose.'

So that was it. She had seen something in the Mirror. Elrond thought she knew their true purpose. But something had made her cry out in terror earlier on and Nenya had called out to Vilya, brought Elrond running to Galadriel's side.

'What have you seen?' he asked, cautious.

'One long gone and dear to you. He is in my Glass. Images too of Phellanthir, as it is now. Not the Past.'

Elrond forgot to breathe for a moment and only when stars burst before his eyes did he take a rushing gulp of air. 'Is it true?' he gasped. 'Erestor said they found a Mirror in Phellanthir. And in it they saw Maedhros. I did not dare believe him at first. He said too that Maglor came upon our forces on Amon Sûl and drove off the Nazgûl from devouring Glorfindel.'

Galadriel looked at him obliquely and he wondered if he had said too much. But there was never any point in hiding from her.

'I have not seen Maglor,' she said and it felt like a failure when she said those words. Somehow it felt that he would yet again be denied. 'But I have seen Maedhros. Over and over again he stands in my Looking Glass as if he will be seen, will be noticed. Though I search for other images.' She leaned towards him and caught at Elrond's hand and only then did he notice how it trembled. 'Tell me, what did Erestor see?'

It was late in the evening when he had shared all with her that Erestor had told him, for he saw no reason to withhold anything; he wanted, _needed_ her help and that of Mithrandir. This, he felt certain, was somehow the greater purpose of the Three.

'I am sure that is why Celebrimbor made them,' he confessed to her. They were sitting now in her own chamber, two goblets of wine half-finished beside them. 'Somehow to find a way of speaking to his lost father, his uncles…' He did not say his own 'father', foster-father at least, beloved and dearer to him than any kin but his own children. 'This Mirror in Phellanthir…I have wondered if it is of a kind to your own.'

The look in her eyes blasted him with their sudden cunning and he knew then that she had already seen it all. And he knew that she wanted Vilya to serve her. Nenya was Curvë. Nenya wanted Power.

He stared at her but she did not blink.

'I know what it is you desire,' she said. 'Is our purpose not the same? What does it matter whose hand opens the door to Maedhros' freedom?'

Elrond gripped his cup and drank deeply. The wine warmed him, and he rubbed his hand over his eyes. He wanted Maedhros free, but that was not Galadriel's intent. He knew what she wanted; to save Celebrían. And how was that possible?

'No one wants this more than I,' he began. 'But what you speak of is opening a door into the Dark? Do we go against the edict of the Valar so openly? Risk so much?' His heart pounded in his chest. And yet…Galadriel had seen Maedhros, and so had Erestor and Glorfindel in Phellanthir. It _could not_ be coincidence. Vilya throbbed, stroked, cajoled.

'We can pull back the threads of Time,' murmured Galadriel, her strong fingers twisted around Elrond's, locked his in hers so that Nenya and Vilya joined and their light flowed into and through each other. 'We can unlock Time, stand on the Edge of Night, cast down the Valar themselves if we wished….'

'Hush,' he said quickly and looked about as if the trees themselves might speak to Yavanna and tell of their treachery. 'Hush. She lives yet,' he murmured, knowing the source of her pain was always Celebrían. Wanting to comfort her but warn her too. 'She is in Valinor and healing. I know this as do you. Be careful.'

'But I can never go back!' she cried and it was true despair. The healer in him reached out. The child who has lost his father.

'I will lay it all at your feet if we can unlock the Mirror,' he whispered at last. 'If you free Maedhros.'

Her triumph was boundless.

He looked at her in fearful excitement for such rebellion was beyond his ambition, but he thought it was not beyond hers; she has done this before. The Unrepentant Exile and he was reminded keenly of who exactly she was, what she had done. Stood with Fëanáro in wild-eyed excitement as they defied all of Valinor, all the gathered people of Valinor, the Valar themselves. She had fought alongside the sons of Feanor in Alqualondë he was sure, with Fingon, with Finrod and was no less than they… Crossed the Helcaraxë for revenge. Fought with Gil-Galad. Thrown down Dol Guldûr. She must believe she can indeed pull back Time itself, he thought a little afraid.

Celebrimbor must have been glad when she left Ost-in-Edhel, he thought out of nowhere.

'We will leave for Minas Tirith as soon as can be arranged.' She turned back and this time, there was no weakness, no leaning upon his arm and she led him. 'My Looking Glass spoke of the need for haste to the White City. There is something there that is a threat to us somehow. And we are not the only ones who seek the doors to the Dark.'

At that he stopped abruptly. Shocked. 'Others?' He came to himself and hurried after her. 'Others know of this?'

'Of course,' she said matter of factly. As if it were a mere afterthought. 'Those already in the Dark seek a way out. They always have.'

A cold grip seized Elrond's heart. 'Morgoth.'

'No. It was not Morgoth I saw. Lesser than he. Perhaps Angmar.' She spoke so nonchalantly.

'Angmar is no mere inconvenience.'

She shrugged. 'He is vanquished. He cannot touch the threads of Time. He cannot touch _us.'_ He wondered if she meant, he cannot touch _me._ But she was not so cold. It was her great loss that drove her. Even as his own loss drove him.

But not at any cost. Would opening the Door for Maedhros, mean egress for Angmar? But perhaps without the Rings, the Nazgûl were no more than wraiths anyway?

'Ólorin will not permit this,' she murmured and he shook his head, held up his hands as if he could stop the words. 'You know this,' she persisted. 'I think he will not do this even for me.'

Aye. And there was the second impediment. Mithrandir.

'You will persuade him to join us,' Galadriel said and Vilya rang like a clear green glass.

Had Galadriel caused that? he wondered in astonishment. Could she reach Vilya so easily?

' _You_ will persuade him if he will not do it for my love.'

Elrond thought that if he were Mithrandir, he would not question but obey, as _he_ intended to for it served his own purpose. She did not say that Elrond would persuade him or they would take Narya by force. She did not need to.

0o0

Legolas thought he should have been relieved that Bearos had gone, or the ghoul because there was not much of Bearos left. But he found that the absolute darkness, the absence of sound, pressed upon him. It was a tomb. Deep below the ground, with an iron barred door and beyond that a brutal slab of iron that closed over him like the rock itself. He felt a panicked shortness of breath; There is no way out. I will suffocate, he thought in panic. I will die in here and no one will ever, ever know. Or worse, will live forever. No one would hear him. No one would ever know he was here. He could not hear the Song. There was no light.

Except a glimmer skating over the surface of the Mirror that stood at the end of the cell.

It felt like an eye was watching him. Or he was standing on the edge of a vast and empty hole which had no end. In the cold darkness, Legolas backed away, dread slithered coldly over his skin so every hair was stiff with fear.

There had been another face in it when first he looked. Not his. Skeletal. Empty eye sockets and grinning teeth. But now he thought it had been Bearos. The ghoul's skeletal face swimming in the absolute dark of the Mirror. There had been a voice. Like the Nazgûl stood on the other side of the Glass. But it must have been Bearos he told himself. It must have been.

He strained to stay as far from the Mirror as he could possibly could, pressing himself against the iron gate. He could go no further and he dared not make a sound for the Mirror standing silent and dark at the other end of the cell. His foot slipped on the lowest bar as he tried to edge further away, upwards since he could not move outwards. Legolas clenched his fists around the iron bars and pulled until the sweat blinded him and the joints of his hands felt as if they would burst.

He dropped to the ground with a stifled sob.

Suddenly Bearos' plan closed around him like a fist. The plan was perfectly formed; the message from Gimli had lured him to the Mews; Arod had been sent away so that no one would know that Legolas had not gone to Pelargir; the ghoul had lured him to this dreadful place; so he had been trapped. No one would miss him until Gimli returned. And by then any trail would be cold, any marks, any trail lost…for even Aragorn would not think to go to the end of the yard and see where Legolas had scrambled up the wall, or would even think to find his light tracks through the Hallows.

A sudden thought struck him. Where was Gimli? That note had definitely been written by the Dwarf yet there was no sign of him. With misery, Legolas realised that he must have written it in under duress and that in all likelihood, his dear friend was dead.

A crack wrenched open in his heart. He found his face was wet and salt on his lips. Do not let him be dead, he prayed. May Mahal keep him safe.

And do not let me end this way, not this way.

He leaned his head against the cold iron bars and felt the beginning of despair.

Why had Bearos brought him here? What did he want?

Was there some reason he was in here with the Mirror that had been taken from Minas Morgul? He knew nothing about it except that Aragorn said it was made by Celebrimbor. But surely an elven artefact could not be so evil? But Elladan had been furious with Gandalf that the Wizard had brought it to Minas Tirith. And then it was supposed to have been stolen by the Easterling, Kustîg. Of course, that was what had sent Gandalf and Gimli into a trap, of that he was certain now. Kustîg must have been waiting for them and ambushed them.

At least Gimli would have given them a fight, Legolas thought and again, felt tears pricking at his eyes. All this, the Quest, the Fellowship, the Battle at the Morannon, Elrohir, all to end in such ignominy, such an ill-fitting end to the Fellowship as an ambush, and a trap.

He took his thin knife from his boot and pushed it gently into the lock, twiddled and twiddled and it would not move. The mechanism was somehow fixed so it could not be opened from the inside. He pulled out the knife and tried again, but the faint scratching of his blade on the mechanism made him nervous and he tried not to keep glancing over his shoulder for whenever he did, he saw his own pale face lingering in the Mirror, eyes huge and terrified. It was the same when he first looked upon the Mirror in the high chamber of Minas Morgul. He returned to the lock but he could not escape the memory of finding the Mirror in the high tower in Minas Morgul, the sense that he could not get out if he needed too.

It is only fear, he told himself again. And again. And again. He paused and leaned his forehead against the cold rock and breathed. Water trickled down the limestone like sweat but at least he would not die of thirst, he realised.

Suddenly his knife slipped away from the lock and nicked his hand. Blood beaded from the nasty thin cut.

A light seemed to flash dimly from the Mirror and he turned his head to look.

There was another flash as some unknown light glanced over the surface of the mirror. For a moment, it seemed the ghoul's face appeared briefly and then vanished, as if something had been summoned by his blood and peered briefly through the mirror from the other side.

Legolas stumbled back with a cry, falling backwards onto the ground. His own face appeared again, when he stared again, the strange half-light made his skin pallid and ghostly. Like a ghoul. Like a wraith.

He scooted back as far as he could so his back was pressed against the iron bars of the gate. He did not dare turn his back.

Something made him feel like an enemy approached through the dark, but not from outside.

His heart thumped.

He felt a scream forcing its way out of him but the Mirror trembled and he stuffed his fist into his mouth in horror and fear.

 _Eru Illuvatar, help me!_ he cried inwardly. _Elrohir! Please, please, please_ …..

0o0o


	26. Chapter 26 Departures

Beta: Anarithilien

Chapter 26: Departures

In Lothlorien, Elladan's news that Mithrandir had found such a Mirror in Minas Morgul as the one they had found in ruined Phellanthir alarmed Erestor. That the Wizard had chosen to take it the White City horrified him.

Subsequently, Erestor had gone with Glorfindel to Elrond to give him the news, expecting Elrond to be alarmed but knowing too, that Elrond's secret yearning was to see his foster-fathers once again. The Mirror might give him one half of that wish at least. Erestor was certain that Elrond's presence would draw the notes of Maedhros' fëa back to the Glass.

Erestor could never forget how Glorfindel's presence had drawn the Balrog to the Glass in Phellanthir, how it had roared and bellowed and the Glass became a bowl of fire as the Balrog had tried to escape to fight Glorfindel once more. Maedhros' fëa had come and defeated the demon but his wounds had been terrible indeed, and as his Song disintegrated, the lonely notes drifted like a ship's bell, lost in the mist.

Ruinátoró came for Glorfindel, thought Erestor, but my lord came for me.

Could Elrond draw Maedhros from the Dark beyond the Mirror with Vilya? Erestor had been able to slide a morgul blade through the strange, skin-like Glass after all. And it was that which had meant Maedhros could defeat the Balrog.

But then if Maedhros could escape, what else might find its way back into the world?

He almost did not care. The sound of his beloved lord's Song slowly drifting, lost on the winds of the Night haunted his dreams. Had done since that night in Phellanthir. He thought Elrond would feel the same.

What he had not anticipated though, was that Elrond insisted they tell Galadriel. Erestor would have preferred she did not know of the existence of either Mirror; he trusted Galadriel no more than she trusted him. Her questions were detailed and knowledgeable, and frighteningly perceptive and there was a look in her eyes that Erestor recognised from long ago. Hunger. Profound loss. Despair.

It had frightened him. It was the same look he had seen in the eyes of the Sons of Fëanor whenever the Oath was invoked.

Glorfindel had said nothing, had not looked at him during the whole of Elladan's story retold to Galadriel, and Erestor thought that Glorfindel shared his disquiet. But when Erestor volunteered to ride ahead to Minas Tirith to help Mithrandir protect the Mirror, and if they were honest, to protect the city from whatever danger the Mirror might pose, Glorfindel said he was going too. And of course, Elladan said he was going with them.

Now the sun was just rising and already Glorfindel and Erestor were preparing to leave. Erestor's tall black horse, Niphredil, snorted grumpily at him and turned his back quarters towards Erestor, flattening his ears and wrinkling his nostrils threateningly.

'Good morning, sweet thing,' Erestor said fondly. He had adopted the custom of some of the Men of Ered Luin and begun wearing a long coat instead of a cloak. It seemed to irritate some and fascinate others in equal measure, adding to his notoriety. The coat had a dashing cut and was dark blue velvet with black fur collar and wide fur cuffs, and deep pockets. Now he pulled out an apple which Niphredil crunched happily and then nipped Erestor on the arm, leaving a soggy bite mark in the new velvet. He laughed fondly.

Glorfindel was saddling Asfaloth in his customary quiet way and Asfaloth stood, perfectly behaved like the gentleman he was, while Niphredil stamped about, letting the saddle slip and throwing his head around while Erestor threw the reins of the bridle over his head.

There was the sound of hurried footsteps and Niphredil barged Erestor out of his way to strain his head over the stall door. Further down the mews, two more horses looked over their doors and whickered softly in greeting. A third grey palfrey kicked the door excitedly and whinnied.

'You cannot arrive in Aragorn's city like some vagabond wench!' Elrohir's voice came as he strode into the dim mews, followed by Arwen. He laughed indulgently and Arwen pouted and fluttered her eyelashes like the vagabond wench he had called her. Elrohir laughed again, and flung an arm around her.

Erestor lifted an eyebrow. This was an entirely different Elrohir from the one who had galloped from Imladris as if the hounds of hell were on his heels, seeking the Grey Company and Aragorn. Whilst Sauron's fall had lifted everyone, Elrohir's ecstasy could surely not be caused by that alone?

'Ada will not allow it.' Elladan followed his brother and sister and Erestor's heart squeezed with misery. Elladan too was changed; the Prince of Dol Amroth was clearly the cause, although the Mirror had bothered Elladan it seemed, far more than Imrahil's absence.

And rightly so, thought Erestor, turning back to brush Niphredil's black mane, which was knotted and tangled with straw sticking out of his forelock.

'Aragorn will want you to enter Minas Tirith a Queen,' Elladan was saying as he opened the door to his own horse's stall. Baraghur nudged him softly. 'It will be a scandal surely for you to turn up without a retinue of fair maidens and a train of packhorses.' But to Erestor, his voice sounded amused as well as irritated.

Erestor could hear Elladan moving around the stall next to him as he worked on a particularly tangled knot in Niphredil's mane. He moved his foot just as the horse stamped down grumpily and then butted him. Erestor smiled and stroked the glossy black neck and went back to the knot.

'Did I hurt you, sweet thing?' he murmured, ignoring Elladan's snort of laughter from the stall next to him.

'Arwen, you are not coming!' Glorfindel announced, leading the patient and well behaved Asfaloth from his stall. Erestor privately thought Asfaloth the most boring horse he had ever met. Although he had been very useful on occasion. But those ridiculous bells! Niphredil bared his teeth and snapped at Asfaloth.

'Please keep your bad-tempered beast under control, Erestor,' said Glorfindel more tetchily than usual.

Arwen pulled her hair over her shoulder and it was only then that Erestor saw she wore breeches and boots beneath a thick travelling cloak with a hood. Oh, she intended to come with them, he had no doubt. And it would take more than Glorfindel saying no to stop her.

'I will stay hidden, I promise. And sneak back out of the city when Ada gets there,' she insisted and laughed. 'Aragorn is as desperate to see me, as I am to see him,' she declared.

Erestor grinned. She was far keener than Aragorn. She was so much older for a start, than the Man she was to wed. Like a child compared with the many centuries Arwen had! He paused. Was that not alike to him and Elladan after all?

No, he told himself. Arwen and Aragorn are Beren and Luthien. And I am a wicked old Feänorian. Kin-slayer. Helico. Outcast. Unworthy.

Niphredil bit him quite hard then, leaving tiny purple marks on his hand and he turned and scratched the bad-tempered horse between his ears. 'Am I neglecting you, sweet thing?'

Elladan laughed softly. 'Has the Sweet Thing bitten you again?' he asked quietly, for Erestor's ears only.

Erestor smiled. 'It is a love nip only.' Finally, he managed to slide the bridle over Niphredil's ears, much to the horse's disgust. Elrohir was leading out Barakhir and Glorfindel still protesting with Arwen and she argued back.

At last Glorfindel looked at Erestor. 'Say something, Erestor! Something to make her stay and arrive with her father and Grandmother. This is not a suitable way for the Queen of Gondor to arrive in her kingdom.'

'He's right,' Erestor said calmly, trying to coax Niphredil from his stable. Suddenly the horse decided to be obedient and trotted out after Erestor, taking the opportunity to snap at first Asfaloth and then Baraghur. Erestor swung quickly into the saddle and pulled his long coat about himself. He looked down at Arwen and gave her a rakish grin. 'Come anyway.'

Arwen shouted with joy and Glorfindel sighed and shook his head, giving up. 'Your grandmother…'

'Would have done the same as I!'

And at that, Glorfindel was silent for it was true. In fact, Erestor was surprised Galadriel wasn't waiting for them at the end of Caras Galadhon on her own horse. He was rather relieved that she wasn't.

But Tindómion was and for that, Erestor was glad.

0o0o0o

Gimli thrust his hands in his pocket and surveyed the bustling port. Tall masts clanked in the slight wind and he was surrounded by strange languages, accents and fragrances. He recognised pipeweed somewhere amongst the exotic scents, and amber and myrrh, a strange sweetness that was in the oils the Dwarves traded for in Dale and Esgaroth. Precious and rare. For the most noble and rich. Ori had always used it and even now, the scent of it brought to mind his old uncle and made him smile.

He had not had a productive morning. They had received a message from Aragorn asking them to return, but Gandalf had been reluctant. And now that Gandalf had revealed to Gimli what the Wizard had seen in Phellanthir, Gimli could understand why; it was not simply an artefact or some curiosity from the Second Age, not even the wonder that Narvi had described in his writing of the Hall of Mirrors. But the vision of the Balrog, battering at the skin of the Glass, how it had bowled and strained, made Gimli realise how important it was that the Mirror did not fall into the hands of the Easterlings. They could find a way to release these demons in the Dark.

But they had had a fruitless journey.

In spite of the bustle and energy of the port of Umbar, Men were wary of a Dwarf, knowing they were from the West and even Gimli's convincing disguise of alternate mercenary and merchant was not really enough to winkle information from these tight-lipped Men.

He sat on the quay step and watched the sunlight shimmer on softly rising and falling waves; it seemed the Sea itself was breathing in those sighs.

It had taken them a day on Shadowfax to reach Pelargir, riding like the wind itself in hope of catching Kustîg. But there had been little hope of that for the Man was long gone. They had barely missed his ship at Pelargir and easily found another that would take them to the coast, but they had to wait for the tide. That delayed them by a full day and only when they reached the coast did they have any chance of catching him. Here they had found a ship, reluctant even now to go to Umbar but a greedy enough captain took their gold and here Gandalf could whistle up a wind to fill their sails and so they sailed into Umbar after only three days.

But Kustîg had two more days ahead of them. By the time they reached Umbar, he was long gone.

Now Gandalf was off seeking a ship to return them to Gondor and when Gimli asked him what they would do about the Mirror, Gandalf had been at a loss.

'For the moment, nothing,' he said cautiously. 'But news will reach us at some point. And then, we will act. I have another task yet,' he said mysteriously. 'And there are others still who might intervene.' But he would say no more of those others and Gimli had to let the matters rest.

'Gandalf, any news?' he asked as the Wizard came striding towards him with his customary haste. Gone were the white robes however and in their place was the usual garb of a sailor and had Gimli not known it was Gandalf, he would never have thought the wiry Man before him was a Wizard. He fell into step as Gandalf led him to a quiet place near the water.

He sat down beside Gimli and said nothing for a while. The Sea lapped and plashed softly at the pale stone of the quay upon which they sat. Gulls wheeled and cried above them and Gimli remembered how Legolas had stopped in the middle of battle, face upturned and eyes glazed as the gulls cried on the shores of Pelargir. He had seen something similar in Gandalf's face as they leaned on the gunwale of the ship that had brought them here, less intense than Legolas' but a longing nonetheless. Of course, Gimli had said nothing; it would be intrusive and Dwarves were very private. Very patient. Discreet, Gimli told himself.

Gandalf stared into the middle distance for a while, he said nothing but he rubbed a tired hand over his eyes and for a moment, he looked diminished, like a wizened old Man who wanted to rest.

Gimli pulled out his pipe and tapped out the old pipeweed. Then he cleaned the bowl with an ingenious little device made in the Iron Mountains and handed it to Gandalf. As Gimli filled his pipe and struck a flame, Gandalf was slowly tugging his own pipe from somewhere concealed in his sleeve, but looking more thoughtful now.

Gimli leaned back against the warm stone and blew out a thin stream of grey smoke. It was good stone, he thought. Quarried nearby and well cut, well engineered. There was barely a seam. 'Almost as if dwarves built this harbour,' he murmured almost to himself.

Gandalf grunted.

'Tharkûn,' Gimli asked, lapsing into the Khazâd name for his companion. 'I am still wondering how it was that Kustîg managed to stay ahead of us with that great heavy Mirror and we on Shadowfax. In fact, I have been wondering that ever since we arrived in Pelargir and he was ahead of us.'

Gandalf mumbled around the stem of his pipe and nodded absently. Gimli cast an oblique glance at the Wizard, a little irritated.

'If he had the Mirror, how did he carry it? If it was in a cart, it must have been going like the wind and no one we asked saw anything. True, there are plenty of carts and all the ships at Pelargir going to Umbar had cargo so once he got there, it would be easy to slip away…but how did he get there before us?'

'That is exactly what I have been thinking, Gimli,' Gandalf said softly. 'I fear we have been duped, son of Gloin.'

Gimli grunted and shook his head at himself for not realising sooner. 'It could be behind us,' he said grumpily. 'We could not have passed it on the road and not known,' he said quickly for they had interrogated every cart driver they passed and on more than one occasion, Gandalf had flung back a tarpaulin cover over goods and searched amongst cabbages and silks, turnips and willow baskets. 'I mean it could have been hidden in Minas Tirith still and Kustîg will have someone bring it afterwards, when the dust has settled.'

'And that is why I have sent a message to Aragorn to tell him that we return on the next tide and booked us a berth on a ship bound for Gondor.'

'And when we get there?'

'Well then, my friend, we start looking for that Mirror.'

Gimli nodded sagely, for he had come to the same conclusion himself. 'Because it never left Minas Tirith in the first place.'

0o0o0o

Pippin whistled tunelessly through his teeth as he ambled about the kitchen, straightening things after breakfast, tidying up, happily absorbed. The whistling was a nasty habit he had picked up from Legolas who did it to annoy Gimli. Lobelia was in the garden, sitting very tidily and watching a clump of grass with elven intensity. Pippin smiled to himself. The little cat was quite like Legolas in funny ways like that; in her agility, in her intensity when she was watching something. As Pippin pottered about the kitchen, he realised that he was missing Legolas, missed his sense of mischief and fun…But every time he thought about Legolas, he had an uncomfortable fuzzy feeling in his belly, and he couldn't account for it at all.

'I wonder if Legolas has found Gandalf and Gimli yet,' Frodo said, coming into the kitchen.

Pippin looked at him in surprise. 'I was just wondering the same thing,' he said. 'Has Aragorn had any news?'

'No. Last time I saw him, he told me he has had nothing since the message from Gandalf saying they were in Umbar. He didn't know that Legolas had gone to Pelargir. In fact, he was quite surprised.'

Pippin scooped up some socks that Lobelia had hidden under 'her' cushion that had been on the easy chair by the fire but was now on the floor in front of the fire, prime position for warmth. He threw the socks to Frodo for they were his. 'You'd have thought they would let Aragorn know that Gimli told Legolas to join them.'

'Hm.' Frodo plumped up the remaining cushions in the comfortable chair by the fire and then did the same for the one opposite. He took out pipeweed from the jar on the mantelpiece over the fireplace and sat down in one and unfolded his pipe case. 'Maybe there is another message and Gimli's just got here sooner.'

Pippin stood at the glass door that opened onto the garden, watching Lobelia. 'But why wouldn't they send the two together?'

The two hobbits didn't speak for a moment, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Frodo filled his pipe and tapped the pipeweed down and lit it, then leaned back, half closed his eyes and drew on the pipe until the weed sparked and lit, glowed orange and then settled. He blew out a long thin stream of grey smoke.

'Merry seems to have been gone a long time,' Pippin observed thoughtfully.

'He was going to the fourth level market,' Frodo added. 'Shopping for sausage and mashed spuds tonight.'

There was a rattle of the front gate and a loud knock on the door.

'That must be him now,' observed Frodo comfortably.

They heard Sam tramping down the passageway and the door opened. A rumble of voices followed, and they could hear Sam's voice rising in questions, the other, lower, deeper rumbling in answer.

'That's not Merry.' Pippin drew on his pipe and let a perfectly formed smoke O rise into the air and Frodo laughed encouragingly.

'I wonder who is at the door,' he said thoughtfully, glancing towards the door. 'Sam seems to be an awfully long time.' And even as he said this, there was the sound of the door closing and after a moment, Sam came into the kitchen, a puzzled frown upon his face.

'Well that's strange and no mistake,' he said, going over to the kettle and putting it on the stove. Frodo and Pippin looked up enquiringly.

'That was one of the ostler's lads from the stables wanting to speak to Legolas.'

'Legolas?' asked Pippin and Frodo at the same time.

Sam paused, hand midway to reaching for the mugs. 'Yes. He wanted to know if Legolas wanted Arod brought in from the pastures.' He let his hand fall to his side and turned to the other two hobbits. 'Apparently he was turned out with other horses who had been in the war. They wanted to know if Legolas wanted him brought back in.'

'Didn't he take Arod with him to Pelargir? I thought that was why Arod wasn't in the stables.' Frodo drew on his pipe but a frown settled on his thin face.

'Well that's what I asked him. The ostler's lad I mean. He had a strange tale to tell.' Sam looked at Frodo. 'I think we should tell Strider.'

Frodo and Pippin sat up more attentively. 'What did he say, Sam?'

'The strange thing is that stable lad is convinced that Legolas had sent a message to say that Arod should go out to pasture and then he turns up asking for his horse. This lad says that Legolas said he hadn't sent any message. But then he just shrugged and said he would take another horse. But the next thing they know, Legolas has left and not taken a horse after all. They thought he must have changed his mind and not gone to Pelargir at all. That's why he came here. But he isn't, of course.'

Pippin sat up his chair. 'So, Legolas didn't take a horse?' He pulled a face. 'I cannot imagine him going to Pelargir on one of the carts that go up and down there every day.'

Frodo started knocking out his pipe anxiously. 'No. He wouldn't.'

'So, where is he?' asked Sam, eyes wide and alarmed.

'Well he's not here,' said Pippin. 'And he obviously hasn't gone to Pelargir….'

The hobbits became very still.

'Do you think he's hurt?' Sam asked alarmed. 'Or something happened to him?'

'No Man could defeat Legolas, or…hurt him…' Pippin said hesitantly.

Frodo dropped his gaze. 'But he could be tricked. Overwhelmed if taken by surprise.'

The three Hobbits stared at each other, each imagining a terrible scene where Legolas, who they had all seen fight off multiple orcs and goblins and Men, was overpowered.

'No,' Frodo shook his head. 'They would have heard, or noticed something in the stables. There must be something else.'

Slowly Sam took a breath and said, 'There is that ghoul still. We don't know where it is.'

'Do you think…?' Pippin said, eyes wide.

Suddenly Frodo rose to his feet, resolved. 'Where is that message from Gimli? Did Legolas leave it here or take it with him?'

'I think he left it on the table in the hall,' said Pippin. 'I'll go and get it. Let's have another look.'

When Pippin returned, he smoothed out the message and Frodo peered at it, Sam looking over his shoulder. After a while, Frodo looked up.

'Well, it is definitely Gimli's writing. It's spiky and rolling at the same time. And the i is the same, it has that little stroke instead of a dot.' He shrugged and then shook his head. 'Well we are no closer to the truth about why Gimli has written this and Gandalf not sent word.'

Pippin knelt beside him and looked at the message. 'What if they have been captured and Gimli forced to write this?' Pippin suddenly said.

'As you say, Sam. We need to see Aragorn,' Frodo said decisively.

0o0o0o


	27. Chapter 27 Aragorn

**Chapter 28: Aragorn**

Merry was walking through the garden gate at the same time as the other hobbits were opening the front door, pulling on coats and hats and stuffing their pipes in their pockets.

'Here, where are you all off to in such a hurry?' Merry cried. 'I've got sausages and those lovely spuds Sam asked for. And there is cabbage and fresh peas too.'

'We are going to see Aragorn,' Frodo said. 'We need to find Legolas.'

'Well about time,' Merry replied approvingly and dropped his basket inside the door and turned, slamming the door shut, ran down the garden path after them.

The hobbits swiftly and easily found their way to the palace and were almost immediately ushered into Aragorn's council room where he sat at a long, very polished table surrounded by lots of chairs, some pushed in and some not so it looked like a lot of people had been sitting down and then got up hurriedly.

'My dear friends!' Aragorn pushed himself to his feet and took long strides to welcome them. He clapped Pippin on the shoulder in greeting and more gently patted Frodo and Sam. A smile lit up his face but Pippin could see how tired he was. Pulling his chair away from the table, Aragorn shifted it closer to a low bench that was comfortably Hobbit and Dwarf sized.

'I cannot stay long,' he said apologetically, pulling his rich robes around to seat himself in the chair. 'One of my council died recently, Lord Herion. Very suddenly and in rather strange circumstances. There is a dispute over who should have his place at council. His eldest son is rather headstrong and very young for such a role.' He paused and smiled. 'But that does not concern you. How are you, Frodo?' He put his hand on Frodo's shoulder and his face grew thoughtful, inward and Pippin knew he was listening to how Frodo was recovering. 'Are you still taking that infusion I gave you?' he asked.

'I always make him drink it first thing in the morning and last thing at night, Strider' Sam said immediately.

'Yes,' Frodo laughed softly, glancing towards Sam. 'I do all that I am told, I swear. But we are not here for that. Aragorn….'

At that moment, there was an apologetic cough and Pippin saw a tall, thin Man was standing near the door.

'Sire, I am sorry, but the Steward asks that you sign this. It is urgent or I would not…'

'No, never mind, Faranden. Here.' Aragorn scribbled his signature on the scroll without reading it and gave it back to the Man.

He turned back to Frodo. 'Now, you were saying?''

'There was a note from Gimli…'

'My lord, forgive me.' This time it was a short, fat clerk who peered round the doorway, his bright eyes darted around the room, alit upon the hobbits with delight, as if he could not quite believe they were there. But there was cleverness behind the delighted gaze. Aragorn glanced at the Hobbits, sighed in irritation but he beckoned the short clerk in anyway. 'Yes, I know. Give it to me.' He scrawled another signature.

'And while I have your attention, sire…' Another two scrolls were pushed in his direction and again he signed. How many times a day did Aragorn get interrupted, wondered Pippin.

'Aragorn!' Frodo said insistently. 'Please!'

Aragorn looked up, pen poised over the paper. But his face changed when he saw how serious they were and how agitated. Slowly he put the pen down and looked at the clerk. 'Take all this away, good Aradhel. It can wait.'

The little clerk bowed low and, smiling at Frodo, gathered up the scrolls and scooped them into his arms. Nodding agreeably, he backed away.

Aragorn turned to the Hobbits patiently. 'You were saying about a note from Gimli?'

'Yes. To Legolas. He went off to Pelargir to meet them…' Pippin began but even as he spoke, it sounded weak. 'But it just doesn't feel right, Strider.'

'Pip, let Frodo tell it,' Merry interrupted, tugging at Pippin's arm and pulling him to sit down.

Frodo told the story quickly and succinctly, answering Aragorn's questions while Merry kept Pippin from bursting out now and again. Aragorn leaned forward, his forearm on the table and his face intent.

'You are worried about Legolas?' he asked, and smiled. 'He is more capable of looking after himself than anyone I have ever met. This is a city of Men, Frodo. Who of us could defeat him or overpower him? And who would wish him ill?'

Pippin bit his lip in consternation. That niggly feeling just would not leave him. 'That ghoul is still out there though, Strider,' he burst out at last. 'It hasn't been seen but it's still out there.'

Aragorn sighed. 'Legolas is the only person who claims to have seen it,' he said quietly.

'Claims!' protested Pippin indignantly. 'Are you saying it is not real?'

'No. I am not saying it did not exist.' Aragorn held up his hands appeasingly. 'But it is a fact nonetheless, that no one else has seen it. That has been pointed out to me several times by Faramir, by Bearos, by others.'

'Gandalf thought it was real,' Pippin said defiantly. 'And how do you explain Ioralas' death otherwise?' he demanded. 'All his blood was gone.'

'Gandalf thought this…ghoul might have been connected somehow with the Mirror,' Aragorn said reasonably. 'And since that has left the city, it is most likely that the ghoul is still in the city. If it ever existed.' He paused and frowned as if remembering something. 'Although Herion died from blood loss…but that was…' He paused and looked down into the polished surface of the table. 'You think Legolas has just disappeared? That Gimli's message was somehow…a lure?'

'Perhaps,' Frodo replied. 'We need to know how that message came to Legolas. Who gave it to the messenger boy, who knew he was going to the stables then.'

There was movement near the door and the room suddenly seemed colder. Pippin glanced out of the window to see if the sun had gone in but Frodo turned abruptly, his face crumpled in distress and he cradled his wounded hand against his chest. Sam immediately sprang to Frodo's side.

'Your poor hand, master Frodo. Does it hurt?'

Aragorn watched, the healer in him attentive until there was a discreet cough and Aragorn looked up. 'Ah, Bearos. Will you send in Aradhel again?'

Pippin stared at the Man. It was his entrance that had caused Frodo's distress he was certain. Pippin had seen Bearos before of course, but not really noticed him. But now Pippin really looked: Bearos looked ill, like he could barely stand. His face was very drawn, long and thin and his eyes almost bulged from their sockets. It looked like he could barely keep his jaw from dropping open. Pippin felt a strange revulsion but no one else seemed to have noticed.

Aragorn had leaned back in his carved chair and shoved his hands through his hair. Bearos bowed low and swiftly departed then. Almost too swiftly. Almost unnaturally.

'He doesn't look well,' Pippin said suspiciously. 'Has he got something? You need to be careful, Aragorn, you mustn't catch something.'

Aragorn turned his head to look after Bearos. 'Unwell? Bearos?' He turned back with a surprised expression on his face. 'I expect he is just tired like the rest of us.'

'No. There is more,' Frodo said slowly. He blinked and looked at Aragorn. 'Be careful.'

Aragorn looked at him quizzically. 'Legolas never trusts him either. He is always telling me there is something _off_ about him.' He paused, his gaze dropped to the polished table. 'Now you make me worry too for Legolas. Perhaps I should…'

Moments later the short, fat clerk appeared in the doorway again, bowing low and glancing quickly at the hobbits, a delighted smile upon his cheerful face.

'Aradhel, tell me,' said Aragorn, 'there was a message from Gandalf?'

'Indeed, sire.' Aradhel nodded, smiling broadly. 'There have been three now. The latest has just arrived. Would you like me to…?'

Aragorn held up a hand to hold him. 'In a moment, good Aradhel. Three?'

Aradhel nodded, folding his hands over his fat belly. "Yes, Sire. The first was from Pelargir to tell you he had not caught up with the fugitive, Kustîg. The second to tell you they had arrived in Umbar. This latest one I have not read of course, Sire, but my guess is that they are returning here.'

'Was there another, speerate message with any of them?' Aragorn asked. 'Anthing from Gimli?'

Aradhel frowned and shook his head. 'No. I would have remembered. There are only the ones from Gandalf.'

Aragorn nodded. 'And this latest?'

'It is on your desk, my lord. As always. It is the top one for I thought you would want to read that one the most urgently.' He stood, one hand clasping the other, anxious to please the new King.

Aragorn smiled and nodded. 'Thank you, Aradhel. That is all…No. Wait. Come here. Pippin, show Aradhel the message.'

Pippin glanced at Aragorn questioningly but took out the message from his pocket and unfolded it, smoothed it out on the table.

Aradhel peered at it, frowning. 'I have not seen this, lords. Should I have done?'

'Pippin, do you know who brought it to Legolas?'

'Yes,' Sam interrupted. 'It was that little lad. All skin and bone he was. Tuillin he was called.'

'Tuillin?' Aradhel frowned again. 'We have no messenger boy of that name. But I can quickly find out if there are any scullery boys… Although if he was thin, he will not be likely to work for the King.' He smiled fondly with a glance at Aragorn. 'We feed the children well here.'

Aragorn nodded. 'Thank you Aradhel. Please do ask around, and when you do, get me the name please of who it was that gave this boy message to be sent. Oh, and send for Thadion, the Chief Ostler. I want to see him immediately. No delay now.' For the Mews was within the grounds of the palace.

Aradhel bowed and scurried off busily. There was the sound of hurried voices and then running feet.

'I have appointments waiting. Just let me sort someone else to do that.' Aragorn rose to his feet. 'Faramir!' he called through the open door.

A few moments later, the Steward appeared, his face curious, attentive. A smile crossed his face when he saw the Hobbits and he came forwards to greet them. He looked tired too, thought Pippin for Faramir was still recovering too after all.

'Faramir, there is some business I have to attend to myself,' said Aragorn. 'It cannot wait so will you see my other appointments?'

'Herion's widow?' Faramir glanced at the King and smiled agreeably. 'I will speak with her of course, sire.'

Aragorn sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. 'Ah. I had forgotten she was coming. Thank you. to her about your plans for the Houses of Healing that will allow her to remain in her house.' Aragorn grasped Faramir companionably on the shoulder and guided him out of the room.

Almost immediately Faramir had left, the Chief ostler arrived, red-faced and breathless. He snatched his cap from his head and bowed low. 'Your majesty,' he said. 'You summoned me. Do you wish to inspect your new horse? I have him ready for you whenever you wish.'

'My new horse?' Aragorn asked mildly.

The ostler was a short, wiry Man but had a cheerful and kindly face. Now he looked confused. 'Yes, Sire. I was instructed to get you a new horse, one that is in keeping with your new state. Showy and magnificent.' Thadion glanced at Aragorn nervously.

Aragorn pulled back. 'I ordered no such thing, Thadion,' he said stonily. 'I am quite happy with my good Roheryn. I need no other horse. Please. Do not trouble yourself.'

Thadion, the ostler, looked so relieved Pippin thought he might faint. 'That is what I thought, sire. But I do not question. I merely serve.'

'I called you for another reason, Thadion.' Aragorn indicated a chair and the ostler brushed the seat of his breeches first and with a nervous look at the fine chair, perched on the edge of the seat, cap in his hands. 'I want to know why you sent your lad to speak to Legolas this morning.'

'Oh.' Thadion's face changed completely to one of concern. 'Well what I actually wanted to know was if he required Arod after all, or if he was happy to leave him at pasture, Sire. After his last visit, see?'

Aragorn made a small encouraging noise and Thadion went on, 'I was hoping he might be here with you, Sire. I have not seen him since that day, and, well, it was a little strange the way he went off without a horse and not a word.'

Pippin glanced at Frodo and Sam and Aragorn leaned forwards, arms resting on the polished table. 'Tell me what happened.'

Thadion's face became serious and concerned. 'Well masters, must be three? Four days ago? He came to the stables, wanting Arod so he could go to Pelargir. Well, only a day or two before I had been told as he wanted Arod turned out to pasture, which we had done of course. So when Legolas turned up asking for him, I was confused. He said he was going to Pelargir to meet up with the Lord Gimli.' The ostler looked worried.

Pippin thought that Legolas and the ostler must know each other quite well for the ostler did not use titles or seem at all awed by an Elf.

Thadion shook his head and twisted his cap in his hands anxiously. 'While he was looking at the horses, I was called away, Sire.' His lips pressed together for a moment. 'When I came back, Legolas was gone already.'

'So did he take another horse?' asked Pippin anxiously.

'No, that's just the thing, my lords,' Thadion said with a frown. 'None of the horses were missing when I came back and Legolas had gone. I assumed he changed his mind and now I worry for he is not with you.'

'He never came home.' Frodo glanced at Pippin.

'Is there something wrong, my lords?' The ostler looked upset. 'Has something happened to him?'

'Wait.' Aragorn interrupted. He looked at Thadion and asked, 'You left him alone to choose a horse. Is that right?'

Thadion looked uncomfortable. 'My lords. I did not think…he can ride anything and I trust him with my own children. I did not think any harm would come to let him just take any horse…'

Aragorn shook his head and said soothingly, 'No fault lies with you, Thadion. You were quite reasonable to leave him alone. And that is what you did? You did not stay with him?'

The ostler shook his head, twisting his hands in his leather apron.

'And you did not see or hear him leave?'

'No, sire. I was talking to the lord Faramir. He did not stay long, but when I went back out to see how Legolas was getting on, for I expected to help him a little, he had already gone.'

'Faramir was there?' Aragorn asked confused.

'Yes, Sire. He was asking me about your new horse.'

Aragorn shook his head in disbelief. 'Faramir knows I do not want another horse. We have spoken of this!' He sounded angry now and Pippin glanced anxiously at Merry. It all seemed to be going horribly wrong.

'There was someone else with him, Sire. A funny chap.' The ostler rung his cap in his hands. 'Forgive me for saying, my lord. He twitched and … well, he seemed to be giggling most of the time. It was most strange. The Steward said little but this Man spoke for him. When they left, I went to see which horse Legolas had chosen but he had gone. No horse had been taken so I assumed he had changed his mind.'

'What was the other Man's name?' Pippin said, suddenly insistent.

The ostler thought for a moment. 'Funny … I don't seem able to remember.' He shook his head. "And I usually have such a good memory.'

But Pippin gave him a sharp look. 'Would you recognise him?'

'Oh yes. I think so.'

Pippin leaned forwards and whispered to Aragorn, 'Call Bearos. Call him in now.'

Aragorn frowned as if he was about to protest but Pippin leaned forwards. 'This is Legolas we are worried about. Call him. What is there to lose?'

At that, Aragorn nodded. He rose to his feet and took two strides to the door. 'Bearos? Would you join us a moment please?'

Bearos appeared. His gait seemed odd, slightly shambling and one sided as if he were lame in one foot. But it was his face that Pippin noticed, it seemed even worse since the last time he had come in. It sent a chill through Pippin; Bearos' jaw seemed to have dropped and his teeth clacked. His eyes seemed bloodshot and bulging and Pippin could not believe that Aragorn would want this Man anywhere near him for he seemed almost to be disintegrating. But to Pippin, it seemed as though Aragorn was not seeing the same as he.

'Your majesty?' Bearos bowed low and when he straightened, his face seemed normal again although his teeth were clenched like it took great effort.

'You spoke to Thadion recently?'

'Yes, my lord.' Bearos seemed confused. 'At the Steward's request, sire.'

'Faramir's request?' Aragorn said sternly. He took a step toward Bearos as if he were angry. 'You were there with Faramir?'

'Yes, Sire.' Bearos spread his hands appeasingly and inclined his head as if acknowledging a mistake.

Pippin thought his fingers seemed very long, and his nails sharp, but Aragorn did not seem to notice anything about this Man, Pippin thought in annoyance. It was like he didn't really see him.

'It was the Steward who summoned me and told me you had ordered him to see the Chief Ostler,' Bearos continued. 'Faramir would not desist or be delayed. It seemed so urgent that I had to go right that very minute. The good man here can vouch for me.' He looked at Thadion, who nodded quickly. 'I still have the message Faramir sent summoning me to his side,' Bearos said.

Aragorn closed his eyes as if he could not believe what he heard. 'Faramir?' he said slowly. 'What did you speak of?'

'Forgive me, Sire.' Bearos bowed low. He looked at Aragorn as if he were nervous but Pippin thought he was pretending for a grin seemed to hover over his thin lips and his eyes seemed bright with madness. 'Faramir wanted me to ask Thadion about the new horse he was supposed to be getting. I am sorry, Sire,' he said in a low voice as if he were ashamed and afraid. 'I know you have said you do not want this but Faramir was so insistent…he was so determined. I thought you had changed your mind. I did not think to question it, Sire. Forgive me!'

Pippin watched in disbelief as Aragorn's face softened and he reached out and clasped Bearos' arm in a conciliatory manner. As if he understood the Man's dilemma.

'But you were there? And you left with Faramir?' Pippin found himself asking aggressively, wanting to defend Faramir for it was beginning to sound as if Faramir had somehow concocted this whole elaborate plan. 'This is preposterous!' he exclaimed. 'How is Faramir supposed to have made Legolas vanish?'

'Sire,' Bearos' voice had sunk low and he bowed his head. 'I saw something as I left. Or… I thought I did.'

'What did you see, Bearos? Do not be afraid. I am not Denethor,' Aragorn said.

'I was dismissed by Faramir soon after and returned to the council chamber. But I had left my gloves in Thadion's office.'

Pippin glanced at Thadion, who was looking at Aragorn and nodding in agreement with Bearos. 'He did, Sire. Black ones they were.' Thadion avoided Bearos' glittering eyes.

'But I returned to the palace by the small gate that leads into the rose garden,' Bearos said. 'I have always liked it,' he explained. 'But as I passed, I happened to look back into the little courtyard that is at the end of the mews. It backs onto the Rath Dínen, Sire.' He paused and Pippin thought it was done for effect. 'I saw the Steward, Sire. He was putting away his knife. I do not believe it was anything to do with Legolas' disappearance, Sire, but I am just telling you what I saw.' He spoke quickly as if defending Faramir but Pippin's heart sank.

'His knife?' asked Aragorn in disbelief.

'It could have been for any number of reasons, Sire,' Bearos said quickly.

'These are lies!' Merry exploded suddenly. He had been sitting so silently, Pippin thought but now he saw his cousin's fists were clenched and his jaw was tight with fury. 'You seek to put blame on Faramir!' he accused.

Bearos took a step back as if afraid but Pippin was watching him carefully. 'My lord!' Bearos protested and he clutched at his chest as if he were wounded. But Pippin saw the gleam in his horrid mad eyes. 'I am merely trying to help the King. But if my words offend, I withdraw them immediately.' He bowed low.

'Go,' Aragorn dismissed him, waving his hand.

As soon as the Man had gone though, he sank his head into his hands. 'It was Faramir's knife that was thrown at Legolas by the ghoul the night he found Ioralas' body,' said Aragorn wearily. 'I returned it to him the morning of the day that Legolas disappeared.'

0o0o


	28. Chapter 28: Sacrifice

Apologies for how long I have left this- I have had flu last week. But it's nothing compared with what poor Legolas has got coming.

Massive thanks to my beta: Anarithilien, who made this even more tortured!

Thank you to those great readers who drop a line to say they are reading this and enjoying it, who are encouraging and keep me posting: freddie, lotrfn, Raider-K, Annika Greenwood, Nako.

Chapter 27: Sacrifice.

In the cold dark, Legolas was slumped miserably against the iron bars. He had no idea how long he had been there for absolutely no light penetrated the darkness, unless you counted the eerie half light that glimmered sometimes in the Mirror…like Something hovered just out of sight, just beyond reach. Still hidden. Waiting.

It frightened him beyond reason.

There was something above the Mirror too: something metal clinked, but he did not want to go any closer, even to investigate. For a ghoulish face seemed to appear at times in the darkness of the Glass, insubstantial, dissipating quickly as if it could not hold itself together. It had appeared when he cut his finger, as if his blood had summoned it from the Darkness.

 _Some dark sorcery,_ he thought. _Perhaps Bearos has cast some evil spell to make me imagine he is watching me from the Glass._ _He means me great harm,_ Legolas thought and bowed his head. And Aragorn too.

He was frightened for Aragorn too. Bearos had been close to Faramir and had used this to insinuate himself ever more closely to Aragorn. It was Bearos who had been entrusted by Faramir to negotiate with the Easterling chief, Kustîg. Bearos must have used the opportunity to plot the Easterling's escape, and to steal the Mirror so that in all the confusion, they had assumed that it was Kustîg who had stolen the Mirror and sent Gandalf and Gimli off on a wild goose chase.

He looked away, shaking his head at his own stupidity. His excitement when he received the note from Gimli was what had sent him racing off as blindly as they. He was certain now that Gimli had not sent the note- though it was unquestioningly Gimli's hand. And because of that, he thought that Gimli had been tricked into writing it.

It was over-elaborate, he thought. But the Ghoul's plan to lure him to Ioralas' body had been equally elaborate. Like a game..

It had killed Ioralas.

Legolas stared at the stone floor unseeing. Instead he saw Ioralas' white face, his broken body, desanguinated like his blood had been drained from his body.

Perhaps Gimli too, his dear friend, was either in as much danger as Legolas himself, or worse, already dead.

 _Eru. Please do not let that be Gimli's fate._

When Legolas had cut himself, the Ghoul had seemed to appear in the Glass as if summoned by his blood…That was the fate that awaited him now. Was that what it had done to Gimli? No. He could not believe that Gimli could ever be foolish enough to be tricked as he had been. Gimli was a rock, strength. He would not have been so easily deceived. Saruman could not deceive him. Bearos would be no match. And Gandalf was with Gimli…Eru, let that be true.

 _I still have my knives,_ he reminded himself over and over for he had not been disarmed by Bearos when he was imprisoned. _And it is only my own fear that torments me._ But it was hard to believe that here. In the dark beneath hard rock and stone it was harder to believe that he might yet escape than it had ever been in the South of the Wood.

 _Ah. Elrohir, I have only just found you to lose you._

A sob forced its way from somewhere deep inside and he clapped his hand over his mouth, glancing over towards the Glass in case his cry was heard by the _thing_ that lurked on the other side of the Glass.

Down here, deep beneath the Houses of the Dead, it was utterly still. Utterly silent. But there was such heaviness in the air, pressure building, like a storm approached.

And then, far off, far away through and beyond the Glass, was a sound.

He flicked a frightened glance up towards the Glass.

Another sound. Like something was just out of sight. Just behind the Glass. As if something had awoken and was aware of him.

Eyes wide, Legolas slowly groped his way up the bars of the iron grille and climbed to his feet. He pressed his back against the iron bars, his feet slipping. Dimly, he could see that eerie green light shimmer over the Mirror and for one moment, he thought the Glass rippled and stretched, as if something on the other side of the Glass had pressed against it. He did not know, in the hysteria of his fear, whether this was real or imagined but it had him scrambling backwards towards the grille and clambering up the slippery rungs as if he might find some way out.

There was none.

He froze, clinging to the iron bars, his feet away from the floor, hardly breathing in case _IT_ might hear him. Still and silent, not moving, barely breathing, he smothered his Song, determined he would not scream. He would not. He pressed his hand over his mouth.

In the Glass, the darkness seemed even more intense, even deeper. It seemed to roll outwards from the Mirror towards him. The hair of his scalp froze, his blood chilled and he held himself absolutely still, eyes wide and staring.

His fingertips of darkness eased beneath the Glass, oozed slowly across the floor, seemed to reach for him. A sudden breath of cold air swept out from the Glass and with it, a tinge of something else. Like a smell...like the emptiness of a tomb.

It was unmistakable to any who had grown up in the Forest or spent time patrolling the South.

Nazgûl.

His throat was suddenly dry, heart racing with fear, nerves jangling. He pulled his feet higher up off the floor and onto the slippery rungs of the iron gate. Squeezing his eyes shut, he drowned out all thoughts, pressed down his terror, stilled his wildly pounding heart, willed his blood to stop banging through his veins for they would smell him...smell his fear... That familiar, inexplicable fear drove a spike through his heart like a blade. He pressed against the cold iron bars, and did not move, forced his heartbeat to be slow and quiet, and suffocated his Song. Every hair on his body and head was stiff with fear.

The Glass shivered like the wind had breathed over a still pond. Slowly, the silk surface stretched like something on the other side were pressing against it once more, testing it.

And then slowly it stilled, and seemed to solidify once more.

Darkness settled in the Glass.

For an Age, he waited. Did not move. Barely breathed. Until at last he carefully let his foot drop to the stone floor.

Nothing. It was gone. No dark tendrils writhed about his feet. There was no smell. The air did not bend like looking into a sepia pond as it did in the South when the Nazgûl were close.

Slowly he sank onto the ground, made himself as small as he could and huddled as far from the Mirror as he could, and dropped his head on his arms in misery. He had his weapons still but they would do him no good against what slowly, silently approached. He knew it now.

Nazgûl.

They were not ended when Barad-dûr fell. That Ring that Bearos wore, Legolas knew now, was one of the Nine, and it sought to free its Brethren. They were there, behind the Glass.

0o00o0o

It was long time before he heard another sound. But this time, it was not from the Glass but from outside, beyond the heavy iron slab that had closed him into this prison.

He clambered to his feet and pressed himself against the grille, heart beating in fear and hope.

Yes. There was a distinctive sound. Someone was coming!

Perhaps someone had discovered he was missing and searched for him, finding a trail, finding clues? Maybe Aragorn, for he was the best tracker Legolas had ever known apart from Thalos, his brother. Or Gimli had realised what had happened and had come to find him. Oh, how he hoped that was true!

He glanced over his shoulder at the still Glass. Darkness had settled within and there was no sound. There had been nothing for an age. It was as if the Nazgûl had probed the darkness of his cell and found nothing. They had withdrawn but not gone. He thought for a moment whether he should simply stay small and silent, hoping he was hidden from its gaze, its awareness. But then, help may not find him and he would be trapped in here forever. Huddled in the dark to slowly starve.

He shook his head. No. He would rather risk the danger.

'Help!' he shouted with all his strength. 'Help! I am in here! Help me!' Please please please! he prayed with everything he had. He focused all his Song, concentrated on it so that permeated the air around him, eased beneath the heavy stone and iron of the door and let it ring through the dark. An Elf would find him. Perhaps a Man with elvish blood might just think it worth looking. A Dwarf might notice the change in the stone, in the air. The Nazgûl would certainly hear him but he no longer cared for he would be free if only he could make those who were beyond this heavy slab of iron hear him!

There was more sound outside, as if feet were pattering along the dark tunnel towards him. Did he hear voices?

' _Help me_! I'm in here!' he shouted again, casting a look over his shoulder at the Mirror. Hoping that the Nazgûl could not hear him. Had gone, drifting away in the Dark. Were too far away to stop him now.

'Eru! Please! Help me!' yes, he could hear them now. Voices.

'My lord Faramir!' he heard a voice say outside the door and almost wept with relief. Faramir was here! He heard a rumbling reply and thought that Faramir must be telling them to open the door.

Oh! And then the sound of someone outside the iron door and a frantic scrabbling in the lock as someone tried to open the door, a key sliding into the lock.

'Yes! I am here! Oh thank Elbereth, I am here!' He almost sobbed as the heavy iron door began to move and he saw a flicker of torchlight and voices.

He clung to iron bars in grateful relief, blinking away tears. Sudden light blinded him from the torches that bobbed about in the darkness. He made out the outline of three figures.

'Thank you, thank you!' he gasped in such gratitude he thought he would faint in relief. 'I thought I was trapped here forever…'

The light illuminated the figures suddenly. Three Men. Two hung back slightly, and one lurched forwards suddenly.

Bearos' unnatural, elongated face with its dropped jaw and gibbering smile and mad, wild eyes pressed between the bars.

Legolas cried out and fell back from the still locked grille, shaking his head. 'No! No!' Not Aragorn. But Bearos. His enemy. 'Where is Faramir?' he cried, desperately searching the dim tunnel behind them.

There was no one. 'Faramir!' he shouted in desperation. 'I am here! Come back!'

'Oh! He has gone! YES!' Bearos snapped his teeth. 'Yesyesyes!' His eyes glittered, the whites showed all around the edges of his eyes, and the eyeballs themselves seemed to bulge as if being pushed out from something inside his head. 'You see it now.'

Legolas stared past Bearos. Faramir could not have gone far, surely? 'Faramir!' he cried as loudly as he could, projecting all his Song into the cry. ' _Please!_ Help me! I am here!'

But the two Men shuffled forward now and the torch light glowed red on their blank faces, reflected in their expressionless eyes. Their jaws were slack and movements stilted. It was the two Men Bearos had brought before, Maltök and Tyrises. Legolas fell back from the gate in horror. Faramir must have gone before they reached the iron barred gate, the heavy slab of iron..

But they were still only Men, he realised. And he was still armed. Surely Bearos had not forgotten? Surreptitiously he felt for his knives. If he could only reach the passageway, he could call again and Faramir might hear him.

Now the key clunked in the second lock and the grille door opened.

He waited. Pressed back against the wall as if he were afraid.

Maltök and Tyrises did not laugh or jeer however, their faces were blank and their mouths hung slackly open as if there were no thought or awareness in them. Bearos stood behind them, blocking the door.

The two henchmen lumbered in and Legolas allowed them to grab his arms for he wanted Bearos inside the cell first. That way Legolas could escape and shut them in their own prison. He could hardly breathe for trepidation. Bearos moved forwards. So slowly. Legolas made himself slump against the wall further as if exhausted and weak. Maltök seized his arms dully and Legolas made himself bow his head.

Bearos was inside the cell.

Legolas launched himself at the open gate, smashing it open with one foot so the door clanged against the wall. It was wide open. He ripped his knives from their sheath and slashed one down over Maltök's chest. He whirled and kicked out hard with his foot against Tyrises, bashed the hilt of his second knife into Bearos' grinning face and felt satisfaction as it crunched on gristle and bone, and slashed the knife upwards so it spilt his chest open. Maltök was still staggering back from the force of Legolas' blow when Legolas leapt forwards through the gateway, shouting at the top of his voice, 'Faramir! Help me!'

He was through! With a thump of his heart, he leapt elatedly towards the darkness of the tunnel. As he did, something shot out and grasped his ankle with an inhuman, iron grip, ripping him back through the open door and into the cell. At the same time, there was a terrific thump on the back of his head. He slumped face-first against the stone floor, dizzy with the force of the blow. One fist was grabbed and battered against the stone until he could no longer hold the knife. It flew from his grasp and slid towards the Glass. The other arm was forced up behind his back to breaking point.

These were Men. They _could_ not be so strong…Maltök slammed into him, his dead weight grinding Legolas into the stone floor.

He could hear Bearos cackling. But Legolas had plunged his knife into Bearos' chest, ripped him open! Surely he should be dead?

Legolas bent his head forwards and then slammed it back into Maltök's face, heard the crunch of bone as the Man's nose broke. But Maltök did not let go and Legolas brought his remaining knife up so it plunged into flesh. Still Maltök did not let go and now Tyrises slammed into him too, pounding meaty fists into Legolas' face and belly. Legolas gasped and brought his own hands up, astounded by their inhuman and brutal strength, feeling his bones crunch and skin tear. He thought he might die. If only Faramir would come!

But there was no sound from the open door. Instead the two Men punched his belly, viciously kicked his thighs, his back, they pounded into him. In a last struggle, Legolas smashed his fist into the face of Tyrises who staggered a little and he wriggled out from under Maltök's heavy kicking. The door was wide open and again, he twisted away, struggled weakly to his feet and staggered forwards, shouting for Faramir. Something latched itself around his thighs and dragged him back, his feet went from under him and he kicked wildly.

A crunch on the back of his head ended everything. Blinding pain. He fell forwards. And then nothing.

0o0o0o

He was aware first of the pain like a vice around his head. It was more concentrated, he realised , at the back of his head, and that his head was bent forwards on his chest, his hair hanging around his face and shoulders. That was where someone, Bearos? had hit him and knocked him unconscious. And then there was the stickiness down his face that he thought must be dried blood. A dull thumping pain was in one eye and his ears buzzed. It was what he expected after the beating they had given him.

But the excruciating pain in his shoulders was not expected and he thought at first his shoulders had both been dislocated and his arms dragged upwards. Dizzily, nauseously from the blow to the back of his head, he realised that there was something biting into his wrists… and each arm was strained horribly, stretched beyond reason. He was hanging by his wrists. There was nothing beneath his feet. That was why his head was bent forwards too. It was hard to breathe.

He did not open his eyes at first, feeling the shock, slowly letting his senses catalogue each sensation; the burning pain in his shoulders, the sickening headache. Tearing pain all over, like his skin had been cut a hundred times…He was very cold. Naked. And there was something icy-cold that clung to his skin. Like wet silk.

Panicked, he tried to open his eyes. One would not open at all and he hoped it was just dried blood that had stuck it closed. At last he slowly blinked his other swollen eye open.

At first he could not comprehend what he saw and thought he had gone blind, but his gasp sucked in the thin silk that encased him so he felt he would suffocate. He pulled his head back in panic. The silk pulled away from his face and he gasped. Icy air rushed into his heaving lungs and he blinked; through the veil that clung to him, he saw a pale, bloody face, one eye closed, the other swollen and sticky with blood, arms stretched into darkness above, the glint of metal on chains, and tongues of fire flickered in the darkness…

And then the truth crept upon him. It was his own face he saw. His long hair gleamed in the eerie light, he saw his braids were loose from the beating Bearos' henchmen had given him but they were still recognisable. The tongues of flame were torches stuck into sconces in the cell behind him…but that could only mean that he was looking at his own reflection…But this clinging, viscous cocoon could not be the Glass? There must be something between him and the Mirror, he thought dully, for pain slowed his thoughts.

Perhaps he was hanging in a spider-silk cocoon, he thought heavily, looking through the grey silk. Perhaps what he had sensed in the Mirror had been some horrific spider, Ungoliant? His senses were slow, his thoughts ponderous and he felt so very cold. Something trickled along his arms and down his ribs: wet. And his other arm. Blood.

His blood.

And then he remembered how he had scrambled away from the Glass when it had seemed to stretch and yield, like a hand had pressed against it from the other side….

Oh Eru, oh Eru, he prayed. This _was_ the Mirror. It was the Glass that clung to him like wet silk, smeared with his blood. He let his head fall back so his face was clear of it and saw the frame of it directly above him, the bronze elegantly inlaid with copper etching.

'Yeeessssss…. You see it now.' A voice hissed behind him and he felt hot breath on the back of his naked thighs as the Ghoul moved behind him. The horrid clack of the Ghoul's teeth startled him and he shuddered uncontrollably, thinking it might just start tearing into his thigh with its sharp and pointed teeth at any moment.

'You are helpless now.' There was nothing human left of Bearos now. Legolas saw its bony hand creeping over his naked thigh. A red jewel flashed in the torchlight and a dreadful memory surfaced. He had seen this before.

'Yesyesyesyes…..Now you ssseeeeee…. The Ghoul's hand grasped his thigh more firmly and trailed its bony fingers over his skin. A gleam of metal caught in the eerie light that was reflected from the torches held aloft. Cold metal touched his skin. Sliced him open, an incision in his thigh. He felt warm blood ooze down his leg and the Glass seemed to press itself against him.

Legolas squeezed his eyes closed in misery; he was being bled. Ioralas had been bled dry of blood. The Ghoul trailed its bony fingers through the blood, wrote patterns on his skin, words in runes Legolas had seen before. In Dol Guldûr. In Mordor.

I am going to die, he thought. And Elrohir will never know what has happened.

'You have seen _this_ before. In the desire of your beloved Ravéyön.' This was indeed what he had seen in Elrohir's mind when the Nazgûl had tried to make Elrohir their new King. They had offered him Legolas, feeding his desire, corrupting it into something dark and sadistic, shown him Legolas stretched like this, hanging from chains in the dark, blood on his skin, a hand sweeping through the blood. A terrible rape.

The ghoul's shoulders shook and it yelped with mirth. 'I know what you think; that he is your beloved. But this is what he really wants from you.' The ghoul's face pressed itself against the back of his thighs and it slid its arms about his hips. 'He betrayed you, summoned the Brethren. He left you on that cold mountainside and they had you.'

Legolas pressed his mouth shut, trying to stop a scream that was forcing its way up from his belly. He thought of Elrohir taking the Black Web from Legolas to save him at the the cost of Elrohir's own life, of Elrohir riding gallantly to the Black Gate to thwart Sauron's trap for Aragorn, of Elrohir kneeling in submission at Legolas' command when they waited on the Cormallen Field. Love flared in his heart. 'He did not betray me,' he said with a courage he barely felt. He heard his own voice sounding weak and afraid but he said it anyway. 'He rescued me. He killed Khamûl. How is that a betrayal?'

That sent the ghoul into a horrible frenzy; it hurled itself from Legolas and lurched away, banging against the walls of the cells, and throwing itself against the bars of the grille, bashing and punching its fists against the iron gate like a frenzied baboon.

It suddenly turned on its heel and threw itself at Legolas, grabbing at his hips and twisting him in his chains so that he spun away from the Glass and towards the Ghoul. The Glass was at his back now and he faced the cell. Bearos' two henchmen were still standing as if they had no thought of their own, jaws slack, eyes empty. Fiery torchlight glowed in the sconces, lit up the Ghoul's face with a hellish glow. It shook Legolas in his chains, its jaw dropping like a scream.

'You cannot kill Khamûl!' it gibbered and spittle flew from its mouth. 'Khamûl is not slain! Khamûl is _this_.' Its maddened eyes bulged like they would burst and it thrust its thin bony hand up towards Legolas' face. On one finger was a ring, old gold. Worn thin. A deep red jewel glittered like a reptile's eye, cold, hard, alien.

' _This_ is Khamûl. It alone survived.'

Legolas gasped. This Ring was one of the Nine!

At last Legolas understood. Elrohir had told him everything that had happened up there on the Mindolluin all those months ago, when Gandalf asked Legolas to seek out the Nazgûl, to allow himself to be captured so they might be persuaded that Merry had the Ring and that was how the hobbit had been able to defeat Angmar. Though all had gone wrong and Legolas had almost been lost, Elrohir had at least vanquished Khamûl, and Khamûl's ring lay unclaimed upon the cold mountainside.

'You….Bearos found it.' The words forced themselves from Legolas' mouth. 'He put on the ring.' He blinked his swollen eye and licked his dry lips. 'Has he …have you…become a Nazgûl? But there is only one of you,' he said defiantly, bravely. 'One, not Nine. And you cannot hold me forever.'

'There is only Khamûl _here._ But _in there?'_ It turned its head towards the Mirror and Legolas knew then that its intention was to use him to draw the vanquished Nazgûl close. It was using his blood as a sacrifice.

'I will escape by death before you can achieve what you intend!' he cried. 'I will go to Mandos.'

'Oh?' The Ghoul chittered and laughed horribly. 'I think not,' it said suddenly serious and menacing. 'I think that this time we _will_ have your rich, bright fëa, Legolas Thranduillion, child of Azganalo. The Brethren will eat your soul.' It slid its hands over the newly made cut on his thigh, spread the blood over his skin and then pressed its hand against the Glass.

Legolas felt the Glass shiver behind him and a sob forced itself from his throat.

'The last time the zigrun came and you escaped us. But not this time. This time, we _will_ devour you. You will die more surely than the sons of Men. You will never come to the white shores. You will be consumed.'

The Ghoul drew back and its teeth rattled and clacked, a rictus of a smile stretched over its skeletal face. Its horrible gurgling chittering laugh frightened Legolas more than he had ever been in his long life. 'You begin to understand.' It cackled and rubbed its hands in glee. 'Yesyesyesyesyes! Devoured. Like your friend. Rhawion.'

Legolas gasped. _Rhawion!_

Rhawion, whom Legolas had tried to save but had been killed in the ruins of Phellanthir.

'But…Glorfindel said he was dead…'

'Yeeeessss.' The ghoul was sniggering, sneering up at him with mad, bright eyes that seemed to bulge even more in their sockets as if the eyeballs were being forced out by something from within. 'Your heroic lord lied when he said Rhawion was dead…His body was dead, but his fëa…oh, that was still very much alive. In the Brethren's hands… although it was forbidden. Yes… Forbidden. And delectable.' Bearos, the Ghoul, was terrifying. It was quite mad. It would devour Legolas. If he was lucky, he would be dead first. 'But now there is no one to forbid us.' The Ghoul trailed its cold, bony fingers over Legolas' belly, its deranged face close enough to his hips, his belly, his groin that he could feel its breath on his skin. It kept clacking its teeth as it tried to keep its jaw from dropping open but Legolas thought it might tear into him any moment, into his naked belly, thighs. His cock and balls had shrunk as if from cold alone, but the Ghoul's hand kept touching him, gliding through the blood and it stared, fascinated.

'I do not know what you mean.' Legolas found his mouth was numb, barely able to move, to form words. His tongue was thick in his mouth.

'Rhawion was devoured by the Brethren. His soul, his fëa, fluttered so prettily in the end. Such a brave little thing, like a butterfly in a serpent's jaws.' The Ghoul's teeth were close to Legolas' skin, his breath hot, rank. Its hand drifted down the curve of Legolas strong back, caressed the painted swirls of the dragon that curled protectively around his torso, his waist and hips and thigh. 'Oh, but we remember how it tasted, the feä of an Elf. So much more intense than Man. So delicate, such light, such intensity!' The bony hand followed the curl of paint and ancient ink, ran over Legolas' lean hips and followed the curl of the dragon around his thigh. 'And you will please us. Child of Azanaglo. I wish your father could hear your screams. We had forgotten since He forbade us…But now He is gone and there is only …. Us.'

Sharp nails more like talons, gripped his thigh, a knife dug into his skin so blood beaded beneath the blade The ghoul gibbered and grinned and lowered its head to lick the blood from Legolas' skin. He let his head drop forwards and unashamed, wept in fear.

o0o0o

tbc

Notes:

Spoiler alert for Through a Glass Darkly- brief reminder of the story re Phellanthir if you haven't read it and aren't going to, or have read it and forgotten this bit, which is important.

Before the Fellowship had set off on the Quest to destroy the Ring, Elrond had sent out many to search for signs of the Nazgûl. Legolas joined Glorfindel, Aragorn, Elrohir and Elladan and Gimli. There were two other elves too, one was Rhawion. Legolas and Rhawion found one of the Nazgûl hiding in the ruins of Phellanthir. It killed Rhawion. But Legolas was poisoned by an Orc's blade and in his fever, imagined that he had left Rhawion behind…The rest of the troop told him he was feverish and imagining it, but when Glorfindel and Erestor returned to Phellanthir, they found not only the other Mirror, but also one of the Nazgûl. It did indeed have Rhawion's fëa captive and was slowly devouring it, piece by piece. Glorfindel and Erestor attacked but Rhawion's fëa sacrificed itself to save Glorfindel. It was after this that they found the Mirror and witnessed the Balrog and Maedhros' battle. Angmar came upon them then and Elladan was wounded by a morgul blade. Elrohir fled with him whilst Erestor and Glorfindel tried to restrain the Balrog but Angmar came upon Elrohir and Elrohir offered himself to spare Elladan. It was here that Angmar cast his spell over Elrohir so that his memory of how he found his mother was corrupted and made something darker, more rapacious. Angmar mixed it with images of Legolas in chains.


	29. Chapter 29 Blood

Beta: Anarithilien

Thanks to reviewers, Freddie, Lotrfn, Raider-K, earthdragon (Thank you- I hope too that this chapter starts to answer your query re the Nazgul and devouring feäs – this is what happened to Rhawion in Glass) Nako, Annika. Thank you all of you- worth posting here just for youJ

Chapter 29: Blood

When the Hobbits had gone, Aragorn sat for a while. Then he called Aradhel to fetch the Steward for he could not ignore what Bearos had said, or the Hobbits' anxiety.

Puzzled by Legolas' seeming inexplicable disappearance, he pushed himself to his feet and went to stand at the window. In the garden the white roses were beginning to bloom and there were white flowers curling about the stems and scrambling through the carefully topiaried hedges. Right in the middle of the immaculate borders, a dandelion had taken hold, its fierce little roots digging deep and its bright yellow flower already spreading in the sun. Legolas would love that, Aragorn thought miserably. He bowed his head; he had been too busy to even notice his friend's absence, he berated himself. What if he were lying hurt somewhere? Or worse…

Could he have been wrong about Faramir? Could the Steward somehow be involved in all of this? There had been those 'Pilgrims' to Denethor's and Boromir's tombs. And he had been in the stable offices with Thadion when Legolas was last seen. It had been his dagger that was thrown at Legolas when he pursued the Ghoul…the Ghoul that no one else had seen, a doubting little voice niggled in the back of his mind. Faramir's name kept coming up…and after all, he was Boromir's brother, Denethor's son…

Pressing his lips together, Aragorn turned and poured two goblets of thin wine, one for Faramir. The other he took himself and settled at the carved mahogany desk. It was cheap wine, for Aragorn had taken Elladan's advice and modelled austerity so one could accuse him of taxing the rich and spending it on his own table.

Aradhel bustled back in with a quick bow. 'The Lord Faramir is here, your majesty.' He took a quick look at the piles of letters and petitions and unopened scrolls heaped up on the desk awaiting Aragorn's attention. Understanding that these urgent matters would have to be dealt with by someone other than the King, the fat little secretary scooped up the piles of scrolls and hurried away through the double doors that led to his own office and antechambers, barking orders at the clerks and scattering his underlings.

A moment later, Faramir entered through the same doors in haste, slightly out of breath, and sketched a bow. 'You summoned me urgently, my lord.'

Aragorn looked away uncomfortably and fiddled with a quill that Aradhel had left behind. Faramir watched Aragorn with a puzzled expression, his eyes wide and curious. He stood a little way from the desk and it was only after a moment that Aragorn realised he waited for permission to sit.

Gesturing to the chair on the other side of the desk, he asked evasively, 'How did the meeting go with Herion's widow?'

'Have you met the Lady Gwithindel?' Faramir smiled slightly. 'She was an old friend of my mother's. As Herion was cantankerous and gruff, so is she, but they did love each other -a well matched couple. She doted on me and was always kind. She is grateful to you in her way.' He looked a little abashed and Aragorn guessed that the widow believed that Faramir had persuaded Aragorn to abandon his plans to convert the great houses of the wealthy old families into an extended House of Healing. 'Indeed she has pledged herself to raising funds to help build Houses of Healing in the lower levels as we discussed,' Faramir continued and his face was pleased. As he had a right to be, Aragorn acknowledged for the amendment had been Faramir's idea. And Bearos' of course.

'That is good work,' Aragorn said generously. 'A House of Healing on each level of the city is a much better idea.' He smiled again at Faramir and the young Man blushed with pleasure. He had received little praise, remembered Aragorn, for his father had preferred Boromir over and over.

Aragorn sipped his wine, trying not to mind the slightly acidic taste. But he could not put off this conversation forever and so he put his goblet down and cut to the chase. 'I am concerned about Legolas,' he said, glancing at Faramir to watch for any flicker of interest or some telltale sign. But Faramir merely frowned and listened. 'He has not been seen for five days now and I believe he did not go to Pelargir as was thought.'

Faramir sat up. 'Five days with not a word? But if he has not gone to Pelargir, where is he?''

Aragorn shifted and shot him a quick look. 'Exactly. He has simply disappeared. And no one has heard or seen anything.'

'Perhaps he has just taken himself off somewhere? Into the mountains or forests?' Faramir suggested. 'I know little of Elves, my lord, but is Legolas not of the Woodland Realm of Mirkwood? There are very few trees in the city. Perhaps he preferred some time in the forests?'

Aragorn shook his head in response to Faramir's question. 'No. He would not do that without sending word to the Hobbits, or to me. He would not let Frodo worry. There had been a message from Gimli summoning him to Pelargir. But we know for certain that he never left Minas Tirith.'

'Well I have heard nothing, my lord. But I will let you know if I did.' Faramir paused, resting his hands on the arms of the chair as if waiting to be dismissed. 'Is there anything else, my lord?'

Aragorn fidgeted uncomfortably and tapped the goblet.'You were in the Royal Mews when he went missing.'

'Some days ago, I was in the Mews with Thadion. He told me that Legolas was there too.' Faramir thought for a moment and then said, puzzled, 'But I did not see Legolas… Is that when you believe he went missing?'

'Yes. That was the last time anyone saw him.' Aragorn gripped the arms of his carved wooden chair now and he watched Faramir carefully. 'Are you certain you did not see him there?'

Faramir shook his head. 'No. I saw no one but the ostler. Bearos was with me for a while.' Aragorn could hear the slight anxiety now in Faramir's voice.

'Did you return by the courtyard gate or the main gate?'

Faramir frowned. 'I cannot remember…the front gate I think, my lord.' He looked at Aragorn. 'Why do you think that I saw him?'

'You were seen in the courtyard between the Palace gardens and the stables, just after you left Thadion.'

Faramir's gaze suddenly darted from one side of the room to the other as he thought about what was being said, considered the implication. 'I do not recall being there. But if I was, is there some wrong in that? Am I being accused of something, my lord?' Faramir asked nervously.

Aragorn sighed and looked away. Restlessly he stood and went over to the window, looking out. The dandelion had already gone, swiftly dug up by one of the gardeners and he felt defeated somehow at its demise.

Behind him, Faramir licked his lips. 'My lord, what have I done to give you reason to doubt me?' He regarded Aragorn apprehensively.

'I do not wish to doubt you,' Aragorn said at last for it was true. More than anything, he wanted rid of this niggling doubt concerning Faramir, wanted his Steward to explain it all away. 'But you were seen…' He turned back towards Faramir and stood looking down at him. The young Man's face lifted towards him, his eyes wide, not with fear…but with anticipation? Expectation?

Suddenly Aragorn paused; Faramir expected to be accused, attacked; he watched Aragorn carefully, like he would a dangerous predator and Aragorn knew this was how he had watched his father. Perhaps even sitting here at this very desk for it had been Denethor's.

Aragorn ran a hand through his hair and as he brought his hand back down to his side, his fingers brushed the Evenstar. Suddenly it was like a veil had been drawn back and he saw himself clearly. Like a tyrant, he was staring down at Faramir, who did not quail or shrink back from him but held himself in readiness, like he expected a blow.

Aragorn sat down abruptly. He did not want to be a tyrant. He spread his hands over the desk and stared down at them. Then he tried again, his voice calm and reasonable. 'I know there was no one else around at that time but you, Bearos and Thadion. Most of the stable boys were taking the horses to the Lebinnin and there were only a few of them left around the yard. All of those were still in the city were on errands for Thadion. He is very clear about that. He says that Legolas arrived just before you but had disappeared by the time he returned to Legolas. That is a space of less than fifteen minutes. There was no one else around but you.'

'And Bearos,' Faramir said. 'But I am sure that he has nothing to do with it either.'

Rubbing one hand tiredly over his beard, Aragorn shook his head. 'No.' But a bit of him wondered why he was so certain of Bearos and not of Faramir.

A silence stretched between them and Aragorn glanced at Faramir. He still held himself as if ready for a blow but not ducking it, meeting it. His eyes were clear and steady but there was a deep hurt, and disappointment. 'My lord,' Faramir spoke, not haughtily or proudly, but honestly. 'I have no reason to harm Legolas. Why would I want him gone? I am not his enemy.' He paused and then said more slowly, 'And I am your loyal servant, my lord.'

Aragorn nodded slowly.

He heard Faramir's chair scrape but he did not turn. 'If that is all, my lord, I will leave you to your work.' His voice was strained, hurt.

Aragorn heard him leave and almost called him back for there was so much to do and he had wanted Faramir's views on the replacement to the Council. But he did not feel he could ask now. Something was lost between them, on both sides now; trust. Aragorn sighed deeply; he did not think they would ever get that back now.

When Faramir had gone, Bearos was waiting.

Aragorn looked up from the map he had unrolled of the city. He thought the Man looked strangely elated, almost bursting with vigour. For a man with a newborn baby, he seemed not in the least tired. Aragorn mentally berated himself for he had not asked how the baby was for some time.

'My lord, 'Bearos bowed and waited to be invited closer. For one so humbly born, Aragorn thought, he had such courtliness and manners. But as Bearos drew closer, Aragorn noticed his long his fingers were, and how sharp his nails. Almost bestial, he thought slowly, curiously. And then the light caught on the Ring that Bearos wore and the red gemstone glowed warmly, seemed to wrap itself around Aragorn's thoughts, soothing him, lulling him so he barely spoke as Bearos suggested that Beregond conduct a search of the courtyard where Legolas had presumably disappeared, or gone over the wall towards the Hallows. Bearos was upset to be suggesting this, Aragorn thought. He was loyal to Faramir, spoke up for him, was always trying to support him. But his first loyalty is to me, Aragorn thought drowsily. He found himself sitting slumped in his chair and Bearos kneeling beside him, face close and whispering.

Aragorn found it difficult to hang onto the exact words, to focus. But at Bearos' suggestion, he summoned Aradhel, his closest aide and told him to bring Beregond to him. He puzzled at Aradhel's slight look of dislike at Bearos but shook it off; Aradhel is jealous that Bearos had my regard, he thought sluggishly. Although it had never struck him before and the thought seemed to come from somewhere outside him.

When Beregond appeared, Aragorn felt as if his face were not his, that his mouth moved of its own volition but he ordered a careful search be made of the area beneath the Rath Dínen, along the walls that separated the Hallows from the city. He wanted any trace to be brought to him personally. 'And I want this done in secret, Beregond,' he said. 'Choose your most trusted men and oversee it yourself please.'

When Beregond departed, the King and Bearos sat down together to work on the new Council, who should have a seat on it and who should not for there was much power to be had with a seat on the King's Council. The day seemed to slip through Aragorn's fingers.

0o0o

Frodo was sitting in the garden under the apple tree smoking his pipe. Sam was pottering about the kitchen and Pippin came out into the sunshine to join Frodo. He sat on the bench and put his feet up on a fallen log. The sun was shining and warm. Above, the lime trees were coming into leaf and a thrush sang mightily in the garden.

'It's a pity Aragorn doesn't have time to join us. He is missing the Spring,' Frodo said and turned his head to smile at Pippin. 'There was a time when I had forgotten…'

Pippin made a little sound of distress and caught Frodo's hand in his. 'It's all right, Frodo. You're back now. With us, with your friends.'

'I know, Pip. I know. Try not to worry.' He tugged Pippin's hand and summoned a grin. 'It's Legolas we should be worried about. He has been gone for five days and no one has seen him.' He gazed into his mug. 'I am beginning to be very frightened for him.'

'Me too,' Pippin admitted. He had not slept at all last night for worry, imagining Legolas alone and caught by some dark creature, or lying hurt and unable to get to safety. 'But at least Aragorn is onto it now as well. He'll find him.'

At that moment, Merry came out, carrying a tray with mugs of tea and some of the homemade biscuits that Pippin had grown to like when he was serving Denethor. The Palace cook made them a supply fresh every day.

'I cannot believe that Faramir is anything at all to do with Legolas' disappearance!' Merry said indignantly as soon as he was close enough. 'I know he would never do anything like that.'

Pippin tried not to catch Frodo's eye for Merry had been protesting it since they had returned from seeing Aragorn. But none of them disagreed. _None_ of them wanted to believe that Faramir had anything to do with it.

Merry thrust a mug into Pippin's hand and turned to Frodo.'You don't believe that Bearos' story about Faramir, do you, Frodo?'

Frodo paused and looked at Merry. 'In Ithilien, Faramir let Sam and I go once he saw what the Ring was like. He is a good Man I think.' He drew a breath and Pippin patted his arm in concern. 'And I don't like Bearos. He doesn't feel right to me and I know what you mean, Pip, about him reminding one of the Nazgûl.' He spoke more strongly as if he did not still carry that dreadful wound inflicted by the Witch-king when the Hobbits were attacked by the Ringwraiths upon Amon Sûl. But there was still a tremor in his hand. 'But we do not know what else is going on here and Aragorn is newly come to his crown. There were factions before and that isn't going to just vanish with the King's return.' He sighed. 'We heard about those people wanting to see Denethor's tomb, and Boromir's. And even when Aragorn held the funeral and spoke so well of Boromir, as his friend and comrade, there were those who did not want to hear. None of this is easy. Aragorn turning up with Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits and a Wizard is not really speaking to his new kingdom of Men. Boromir died in his company…There will be those discontent with our story, those who are loyal to the Steward, and therefore to Faramir.' He blew a thin stream of grey smoke into the air where it curled above him for a moment. 'Perhaps this is a plot to drive a wedge between Aragorn and Faramir.'

'But Faramir has no part in this!' cried Merry stoutly. Pippin looked at Merry anxiously; he was never angry with Frodo but all this with Legolas missing and accusations about Faramir was testing all of them.

'No,' Frodo said softly. 'I am sure he has not…but Legolas is our friend. And he is not here. He is in danger and I only want to find him. He saved us so many times. We owe him this one.'

'I know!' shouted Merry angrily.

There was a tense silence and everyone looked at Merry and then away. Sam had been walking down the path towards them stopped suddenly, looked uncertainly at Frodo before approaching more slowly.

Merry hung his head. 'Sorry,' he said. 'I just can't…I am so worried about Legolas but I just can't believe Faramir is to blame.'

Frodo looked compassionately at his cousin and Sam patted his shoulder kindly. Pippin's heart clenched; he hated seeing everyone upset and at odds, but more, he hated the thought that Legolas might be hurt or in danger.

'I know,' said Pippin suddenly resourceful. 'We need to find that boy, Tuillin. It's beginning to look like a dead-end with who met whom in the stables. That could all be a misunderstanding and coincidence. Faramir was in the stables -so what?' Pippin shrugged. 'But the message from Gimli was definitely in his handwriting. That is our clue!' he said triumphantly and the hobbits looked up hopefully. 'I'll ask Beregond to find out what he can about the message from Gimli. That boy, Tuillin, was given it by someone to give to Legolas. We just need to find out who.'

'And I will go and warn Faramir that Bearos is trying to implicate him in Legolas' disappearance,' Merry said stoutly.

'I don't think you should, Merry,' Frodo said softly. He looked at his cousin sympathetically but before Merry could exclaim in outrage, he said, 'I know you are loyal to Faramir and I agree; in Ithilien, he acted well when he let Sam and I go - I do not think he is Boromir, or his father. But Legolas has disappeared and whatever we think of Faramir, he _was_ in the mews at the time Legolas disappeared. It was _his_ knife that was thrown at Legolas by the Ghoul.' He held up his hand to forestall Merry further. 'I know. It could be someone else trying to make it seem that Faramir is behind all this and it is all an elaborate hoax. 'But that puzzles me too. It's almost too elaborate.'

'Why would he do anything to hurt Legolas?' demanded Merry. 'What motive could Faramir possibly have?'

Frodo sighed and shrugged. 'I do not want to believe it either, Merry. But we cannot ignore what has happened either. And it may yet be a trap to implicate Faramir. We need to keep our minds open to all possibilities.'

Merry sank back against the garden bench, arms crossed and scowling. 'Very well. But I think we should be looking more carefully at what that Bearos is telling us. He could have simply said to Faramir that Thadion wanted to see him and not the other way around. If you ask me, that Bearos is in it up to his neck.'

'I do not disagree,' Frodo said pacifically. He spread his hands. 'I hope as much as you, that Faramir is clean of any of this. But I beg you to put Legolas first in this.'

'Of course!' Merry cried and leaned forwards then. 'Of course. I did not mean anything else. Just that if we are going to find Legolas, we do need to be asking the right person. And it's not Faramir!'

'I agree,' exclaimed Pippin. 'I think it's that Bearos too.' He really hadn't liked the way Bearos looked at Aragorn; there was a sort of gleeful mischief in his eyes and he looked so weird, elongated and stretched. His hands too long and his face seemed too pale.

'Pippin and I will go and find Beregond as Pip suggested,' Frodo decided. 'Merry, you and Sam go and see if you can find out anything about that old woman who pretended to be Ioralas' mother. She must know who paid her to do that, why whoever it was wanted Legolas to go to that house. There must have been a human who paid her. And that person must know something!'

'I wonder if Legolas saw something that distracted him, you know,' said Sam quietly. He had not said anything until now. 'It's not like him to just go off without telling any of us. He knows it would worry you, Frodo.' The other Hobbits were silent, thinking. 'And I've been sitting here wondering who, or what, could have overwhelmed him or lured him away so that he hasn't come back to us. And that Ghoul is all I can think about.'

Pippin put a hand over his mouth; it wasn't that he hadn't thought it. He just could not bear to speak it.

'I am afraid Sam is right,' Frodo said quietly. 'It proved faster and stronger than Legolas. It's the only thing that is. And I am really frightened that it has our friend.'

0o0o

After that, the Hobbits did not sit idly but Pippin and Frodo made their way quickly to the guardhouse in the Tower and Merry and Sam left for the fourth level to search for Ioralas' mother, or her imposter. Pippin and Frodo found Beregond in his office with his captains talking very quietly and looking over a map of the city. They all leapt to their feet when Frodo and Pippin pushed open the door , saluting and bowing but Frodo said quickly, 'Please do not let us disturb you, Captain. We will wait outside until you are ready.'

Beregond would not hear of it and at a nod, his Men stood up. 'They know what they have to do anyway, sirs. I will be along shortly,' he added to his captains. 'Start in the Rose Garden courtyard near the Mews and work on either side of the wall.'

Two of the captains pulled out chairs for the Hobbits, and then seeing they would be too high, one of the captains looked about and pulled a low bench forwards that had been in front of the fireplace. Bowing low and smiling, the captains filed out but many stole a curious and respectful glance as they did so, for the Hobbits were heroes to the whole city and much celebrated. These Men would take the story home with them tonight, thought Pippin odd and proud about it at the same time, of how they met Frodo Baggins, Hero of the Shire, Ringbearer.

At last it was just Beregond and the Hobbits. He leaned forwards, hands on his desk and eager to help. But when they told him they were hoping he could help them to track down the messenger who had brought the letters from Gandalf and Gimli, he said cheerfully, 'I can do better than that. Bergil!' he called through the door that stood ajar and led to another office.

Bergil's round, cheery face popped around the door and when he saw the Hobbits, he broke into a wide smile. 'Master Peregrine!' he cried, 'And my lord, Frodo.' He bowed respectfully.

'Come now, not so formal,' laughed Frodo and Pippin was so delighted to see Bergil that he almost forgot what they were there for.

'Bergil is one of the messengers between Pelargir and the city,' explained Beregond.

Pippin could hardly believe their luck. 'Bergil, you will be able to tell us if there was a message for Legolas from Gimli'

Bergil frowned. 'The King had a message from Gandalf my lord. But nothing from the lord, Gimli.'

Frodo and Pippin stared at each other. 'Are you sure there was only a message from Gandalf?' Pippin asked.

'Well there were other messages, my lord. There always are.' Bergil looked a little abashed and said apologetically, 'I am not allowed to tell you anything more I am afraid, my lords. But there was definitely nothing for the Lord Legolas, and nothing from the Lord Gimli.'

'But there was a message delivered by a boy called Tuillin. It was Gimli's writing.'

Bergil made a face and said, 'Well it did not come through the post, my lords. I know, for it is I who bring all messages from the Gates to the Palace. And there have been no messages at all from the Lord Gimli. I would know.'

'Do you know a boy, Tuillin? A messenger boy? Skinny, small. Don't know how old he is. Lives with his grandmother he said.'

Bergil thought for a while and then said, 'There is no messenger boy called Tuillin, but I know that sometimes boys are used between Gates. I will ask on my way back down to the City Gates when I take the returns. I should have some information for you by the evening.'

Beregond had been listening thoughtfully and when Bergil had finished, he sent his son on his way and then leaned forwards, his elbows resting on his desk. 'I do not think I am breaking any confidences if I tell you that the King has ordered a search of the palace grounds, the Royal Mews and the other side of the city wall. He has told us to search for evidence of the Lord Legolas or anyone else who might have been there without cause.' He looked at Frodo and then Pippin and his eyes were anxious, puzzled. 'I take it that this messenger boy who brought the note for the Lord Legolas is somehow suspect in all this and that you think it may have been a trap. If so, there is dark work being done. Do you think that the lord Legolas might be being held against his will? A hostage?'

Pippin gasped in shock but Frodo said softly, 'Yes. That is indeed my great fear. Though I do not know why anyone would do this.'

Beregond was silent for a moment and then he said quietly, 'I know the King is close to the Lord Legolas. Could it be that someone will threaten harm to Lord Legolas unless the King does as he is told by the kidnapper? If you think that might be the case, I need to know so I can protect the city,' he said seriously.

Pippin felt a churning in his belly; Beregond was right. This was darker and deeper than he had realised. 'Frodo…' he began, turning towards his cousin.

But Frodo clutched his shoulder and his face was white, contorted with pain.

'Frodo!' Pippin cried and threw his arm about Frodo's shoulders before he fell back from the bench.

Beregond leapt to his feet and lifted Frodo into one of the heavy wooden chairs where Frodo leaned back, pain drawn on his face and his hand still clutching his shoulder.

'Frodo?' whispered Pippin in fright. 'That's where Angmar struck you.'

'It hurts,' Frodo said with a grimace. 'It's like he is standing here.'

None of them saw a shadow draw back from the window, its elongated face and maddened eyes glittered cruelly.

0o0o

Water sprayed from the hooves of galloping horses as they splashed lightly over the Entwash. It was a week since the Elves had left the eaves of the Golden Wood and the sense of urgency had grown upon Elrohir. He dreamed at night. An iron crown. A ring upon his hand. A pale, lithe body stretched in chains and firelight licked over the pale skin, wound about with wild coils of colour, a dragon draped over the shoulders, curled about the hard belly, lean hips, thigh. Long gold hair streamed to his narrow waist…Elrohir shook his head to rid himself of the obscene and depraved images that hardened him and disgusted him in equal measure.

Erestor's black horse loped alongside easily and now Erestor turned is head to glance at Elrohir. 'You ride as if Morgoth Bauglir himself were on your heels,' Erestor observed and the black fiend he rode pulled ahead slightly and aimed a kick at Barakhir, who swerved and shied. Tindómion's bright chestnut horse snapped at Niphredil as he passed.

'Did you and Glorfindel not urge haste?' replied Elrohir.

Erestor shrugged. It was true. Glorfindel would not let them rest for long and when they did, he stood facing the south and Gondor as if he might quench the sorcery in the Mirror by sheer will alone. Arwen looked exhausted, unused to such a pace or the wild but she never once complained for she knew that Glorfindel would not hesitate to send her back with one of her brothers and in disgrace.

They camped briefly near the Entwash and lit a fire. Elrohir could hear the horses pulling the grass up in long, contented munches and they moved slowly about. The river poured and slipped through the marshes. It was peaceful, beautiful, as the stars slowly pricked out in the sky and Elrohir thought of the last time he had ridden towards Gondor over these lands. It had been with the Grey Company, Halbarad, Corbarad, Baelderon. All gone. Dust.

But he remembered too that it was the first time he had seen Legolas since Elrohir himself had ridden out with Glorfindel and Tindómion for the Havens, hoping that their obvious flight would distract Sauron and the Ringwraiths away from the Fellowship. A surge of devotion filled him, swelled his chest at the thought of Legolas, but there was a thin stream of fear too and it twined about his heart, tugged on him as if it would draw him closer, more quickly back to Minas Tirith, back to Legolas. And when Elrohir lay down to sleep, the dreams came again and he did not rest but rose early, urged them onwards, faster, ever more swiftly and on the eighth day since they left Lothlorien, they passed into Gondor.

0o0o

Bearos laughed loudly as he threw open the secret door hidden beneath his house and that had been excavated by Maltök and Tyresis weeks ago in preparation for the capture of the Elf, Legolas Thranduillion. Tyresis was dead now and two days ago he had dragged the meaty, slumped body by one foot, bumping him over the stones and bashing into the rocky tunnel until he reached Bearos' house. He had made Maltök help.

'Waste not what you might eat in need,' Bearos said, tearing into Tyresis' flesh. It was a saying from the desert. Harad. The hot dry white heat, the sand. Red robes fluttering in the desert wind…

His teeth were sharp and bright. Strong. His hands stronger, tore into the bloody meat. He was still starving but the Elf's blood was assuaging that terrible hunger. But for now, these carcasses would do.

It was a pity that Bearos' woman had fled, he thought. A child was more tender than these men, and a baby even more so. Juices ran down his lips and he wrenched the joints apart and sucked the bones.

Soon here was not much left of either man and he left a pile of empty bones in the middle of the parlour for he cared not. There were other bones too. An old woman. A child. There were others. He couldn't remember.

And anyway, he had the Elf now. He had left the Elf alone for two days to recover, made sure he had food, and warmth, a cloak. Maltök had thrown the Elf's clothes away, his weapons too - perhaps taken them himself even? Bearos did not care. He had left the cloak because the Elf needed to be warm. By now the blood would be strong again, and pulsing through his veins.

Time enough.

Through the secret door he went, and as he moved through the rough-hewn tunnel beneath the city's stones, he let his form change; his feet lengthened and his hands. He pounded down the tunnel, feeling his sinews stretch, his jaw dropped and he no longer tried to hold it. He lifted his head and let out a shout of elation, reached into his deepest part and thrilled at the bang of blood in his veins, the feel of the air as he sped through the dark tunnels beneath he city and no one knew he was there!

This tunnel led beneath the Hallows, below the Rath Dínen and into the tombs of the Kings. In the pitch darkness, he leapt from one silent effigy on its plinth to another. He crouched upon the effigy of one tomb, and pissed all over the still, bronze face of Eärnur, laughing as he did. Perhaps the Elf could hear him, he thought and threw back his head in ecstasy at the thought of the Elf's terror and shouted aloud again, a long drawn out laugh. Manic. Inhuman. Full of malice. It was almost a shriek. And then he crept silently from the crypt so he could smell the Elf's fear. Savour it.

The iron slab door was before him and he pressed himself against it, listening. Scenting the air. The Elf was imprisoned behind it.

Ah. The fear. The terror. It was like heady wine.

He could hear the faintest scuff of the Elf's feet. Imagined him pressing himself back against the wall of the cell. Trying to keep away from the Mirror. Away from the door. His face would be pale, almost white with fear. His eyes huge in the absolute dark. Like the old woman. The child.

Bearos pressed himself closer and let his nails rattle softly down the iron door.

Within there was silence. The Elf had heard him. Bearos smiled slightly, felt his thin lips pull back over his teeth. His long teeth. But the pressure inside him exploded and he thrust the key into the lock and hurled the iron slab back so it clanged against the stone wall of the tunnel, and pressed his face against the bars.

'I see you,' he hissed. 'I smell your fear.'

The Elf was pressed back against the wall, hugging the cloak about himself as if it might protect him.

Slowly, Bearos opened the iron grille, left it wide because he enjoyed the sudden hope that flared in the Elf's eyes. And braced himself, feeling his sex bulge at the excitement, the prospect of violence.

He even stepped aside slightly as if he had forgotten the gate was open.

The Elf's muscles bunched and for a moment, Bearos was taken aback by his speed and almost missed him. The Elf launched himself somersaulting over Bearos and shot past him, but the Ring flared and power surged into Bearos, his body thrust upwards and his arms latched around the Elf's hips. The Elf kicked hard and caught Bearos' jaw which clicked and dropped, dislocating. His tongue lolled from his mouth, hot and red. Bearos rolled his shoulders and leapt after the Elf. He let out a hunting cry, a gibber of manic laughter. The Elf would not escape. It was just time. He could smell the fear so strongly it was almost visible, a slick on the air, shimmering green-gold.

He caught him just as the Elf was about to burst into the crypt. Ahead was the faintest glimmer of green-gold; the Ring could see it though Bearos would never have noticed it on his own. The Elf was hiding. Bearos sniggered, put his hand to his mouth to stop it but he did not really care. He wanted the Elf to hear him. It was amusing this way. It was much more… the word evaded him at first. Exciting, he thought.

'I'm coming…' he whispered against the stone, knowing it would carry along the walls.

He felt, saw, the slightest shift in the darkness. There. Crouching by a tomb. Silent.

Bearos stilled. He watched. Amused. The Elf's heart was hammering in his chest. Pumping blood. Pulse racing. Bearos licked his lips.

Rose silently upon his haunches. Leapt.

He crashed down onto the Elf before he even looked up. The force of his leap rolled them both over and over, crashing together. The Elf fought hard and Bearos laughed maniacally, aware that he was dribbling and gibbering, enjoying the feel of the strength pinned that he pinned beneath him. The Elf struggled uselessly but Bearos was so strong! He flexed his muscles and grinned. 'Got you….'He let the syllable die away into the dark. 'Time to feed.'

He grabbed the Elf's long hair and dragged him by his hair at first but the Elf still fought and kicked, so Bearos smashed his fists into him and crushed him. Then he flipped the Elf onto his belly like a fish and bent one of his arms up behind him almost to cracking. It was a good thing Bearos had fed upon the Elf two days ago, otherwise he might not have been strong enough to subdue the Elf so completely. Even weakened, the Elf struggled and kicked and bit, and Bearos eventually slammed his face into the wall so he was completely stunned and then it was easier.

Stringing him up in the chains was easier too and there was no kicking this time.

Bearos clasped the shackles about the Elf's wrists and ankles this time so he could not kick whilst Bearos fed. When he had the Elf stretched before the Mirror,, Bearos paused thoughtfully. He had enjoyed the chase. It reminded him of sex. He had forgotten that too. The slinky, soft girls yielding, their long eyes slanting up at him in fear, his sex sinking into them. Tight hot holes. He let his hand drift over the Elf's belly, looked up at the way the Elf turned his head away and squeezed his eyes closed as if by not seeing, he might prevent what was happening. Bearos thought that he had seen that in the golden-skinned girls of the East too. Bearos' hand, his long fingered, sharp-nailed hand paused low between the Elf's hip and belly. Slid lower where the great iliac vein slowly pumped. He could feel the blood sliding back towards the Elf's heart, dark, deep, almost purple in its richness.

The scent of the Elf's blood was overwhelming and Bearos drew his lips back and sank his long teeth where his hand was spread over the Elf's groin. Blood oozed over his tongue, tasting of sweet iron and copper. He sucked the wound greedily, feeling the Elf gradually cease his struggles and hang more limply. Bearos raised his head and turned slightly towards the Glass. Reflected was his own face, wet blood soaked his mouth. And then, as if standing behind him, though Bearos knew he did not, another face appeared beside his own.

He drew back his lips and licked the blood on them, and then wiped his mouth, pressed his hand against the glass.

In the Mirror the other face held his gaze, avaricious, greedy. Bearos wiped his other hand through the blood that dripped down the Elf's thigh; his hand was saturated, bloody, and he pressed this too against the Glass.

 _Brethren._

 _My lord._

Bearos came close and bowed low.

Behind him the Elf gave a low groan and Bearos half turned his head.

 _More blood._

He moved and shifted so he stood behind the Elf. The long, lean body was stretched between the chains and the glimmer of light that reflected from the Glass gleamed on his pale, bloody skin. Bearos was fascinated by the wild colour etched upon his body. He must have bled when it was done, the needle pressing into flesh, Bearos thought and pressed a nail into the swirl of purple and gold that slid over the Elf's belly. He pressed harder until there was the slightest pop and he broke through the skin. Bright red beaded the cut. Bearos bent his head and lapped at the blood.

And then he felt it.

The little shiver in the body he drank from.

He looked up. The Elf's head was back, lips parted but now it no longer looked as if he cried out in horror and pain. Now his lips were parted in the beginning of ecstasy

0o0o


	30. Chapter 30 Angmar

Chapter 30 Angmar

Legolas' heart thumped ponderously in his chest; it laboured for there was no longer enough blood to keep it pumping. Blood oozed slowly now from the cuts and wounds, slid down his skin. Breath squeezed through his lungs, shallow, rapid and he thought he was suffocating. He found his lips moving in prayer but no sound came but little gasps escaped his lips. In the Glass, he saw himself dimly, long lean body stretched. There was light somewhere and it gleamed on his hair, on his pale skin with its yaré- cármë.

He knew the purpose now of this Mirror they had found in Minas Morgul. It was a window into the Dark, the Abyss. On the other side of the grey-silk Glass were the Nazgûl…And not only them, he knew. Worse things… if the Balrog had been worse. But he thought less and less clearly. He knew he had lost too much blood and was becoming confused. He had begun to catalogue the effects of the blood loss on himself a while ago but now he had become lethargic, exhausted and he found he no longer had the energy to care.

I am dying, he thought. He wished he could see Elrohir once more.

In the Mirror, a skeletal face appeared in the darkness, it was not his own reflection, and not quite a skull, for it was too alive for that, but not human either. Its eye sockets seemed empty but there was a wicked gaze there watching him, amused. There was the jaw, teeth exposed but the rictus of its smile was more than a skull's empty skinless grin; there was something of himself in its movements, the way it tilted its head slightly in mockery of himself, the way he did to invite intimacy.

It was inviting him now.

In the Glass, shadows drifted and the skeletal face loomed closer. It wore an iron crown, blackened and spiked, gleaming dully in the strange half-light that lit the cell.

Angmar. He knew it was the Witchking.

Dread settled in his belly like a cold stone.

All he could do now was to turn his head away in horror and fear. But he could not escape. He knew that; it was useless. He was too cold. His body spasmed. Muscles clenched and shuddered. His fingertips prickled but that was as much to do with blood loss as the presence of the Nazgûl.

I am dying, he thought again, feeling his own blood slide slowly down his arms, his belly, thighs.

From the dark on the other side, a skeletal hand lifted, bone barely covered in skin, and it pressed against the surface of the Mirror, pushed. Pushed again at the grey-silk surface and horribly, the surface gave, as the hand impressed itself upon the silvered surface like pressing a hand in clay or draping it with silk.

Oh Eru, save me.

The hand reached towards Legolas and he could not move; he could not breathe.

His skin remembered the cuts of the morgul blades that he took upon the cold mountain Mindolluin. There were the same cuts on him now, like the blade the Ghoul had used remembered him, like it traced the scars that were long-healed and gone, opening them again for the Nazgûl.

Sweat ran into his eyes and he wondered how it was that he was sweating when he felt so cold. He blinked slowly, watched the sweat bead on his eyelashes like tears. Perhaps it is tears, he thought dully.

Angmar was close now, his skeletal hand reached through the fog of the Glass, stroked his face.

 _Yôzâira._

He felt himself shrink from the ice-cold touch through the Glass that draped over Angmar's hand like grey silk. He shrivelled inside but could not escape.

He knew that word; Gift of Longing. It was what the Nazgûl had called him on the Mindolluin, when they promised him to Elrohir in return for the Ring. As if the Glass reflected his thoughts, the grey fog cleared and he saw in the Mirror the mountains, the black pines on the ridge above and the high peaks covered in snow.

 _Look. Watch how your beloved Ravéyön betrayed you._

In the Glass he watched himself check on the small fire he had lit, and look up towards the high ridge where Elrohir had gone. Though Elrohir had scorned him and his company. Called him whore. He saw how the trees suddenly bent and tossed their heads in the great wind that roared up through the passes and high valleys. It lashed through the trees, tossing branches, bending the tree tops. He had not forgotten how the biting, roaring wind brought the bitterness of the East. Pine cones, small branches struck the earth around him. He watched his hair as it was caught up and thrown back by the wind and he struggled against it, fighting his way to the top of the ridge. Long shadows seemed to cling to the trees, shifting as the branches and leaves tossed and swayed in the strong wind. Lightning spiked ahead just beyond the ridge and the shadows lurched forward. The rain came then, heavy thunder drops and he saw how he broke into a jog through the trees now, searching for Elrohir and anxious as he drew further and further from the small camp.

He knew what was coming and cried out, for he dreaded even the memory of it. Now he could see that sudden sheet of lightning lighting up a silvery reptilian hide, gleaming wetly in the rain ahead of him. Movement flashed in the lightning and then darkness.

In the terror of the cell, of the ghoul's bleeding him, he was forced to watch himself hunted down by the Nazgûl, fleeing down the narrow goat track in the heavy rain that had put out his weak fire. Hearing the terrible shrieks of the Nazgûl as they pursued him in his desperation and fear, and Elrohir was supposed to have been there… Elrohir, who was supposed to protect him from giving everything away, from being taken, was nowhere. Nowhere!

Now the rain came in drenching sheets, broken only by the tree cover overhead and he watched himself fumbling with the kindling he had stocked, throwing it on carelessly in his panic…and then too late. The Nazgûl slowly stepped forward and one strode into the clearing…Then a second.

Hanging, weak, his body shuddering with cold and blood loss, Legolas felt each cut as the Nazgûl blades sliced across his cheek and another burned along his arm. Three blades pierced and cut and tore his arms, thighs, his chest, his belly...but they did not stab downwards, they did not pierce his heart. He felt his shirt flutter and knew it had been rent and tattered. And then one blade pointed at his breast.

He could not distinguish between then and now for he felt their blades as if it were happening again, right now, each sword touching him; left breast, right breast and behind him. They did not ease but pressed forwards slowly, slowly. Where the points touched and then so slowly pierced him, along his nerves he felt a cold ice that burned and was terrible. The pain pressed slowly, endlessly inwards and there was warmth trickling down his skin and the blades pierced skin, then pierced slowly through into muscle and flesh, pressed on between bones. Squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth to stop the screams that wanted to burst from his throat, he drew himself inwards, and briefly thought of his friends, of the Fellowship...and whispered to himself…

 _For Frodo._

And at that very moment thin shrieks filled the air, burned his ears almost. It hurt as much as the swords. In the Glass, he saw again how the dark wraiths surrounded him but he no longer knew if he saw the past or if they surrounded him now in the cell that was like a tomb. The blades of the Nazgûl sliced downwards and he sank under the agony to his knees…

No- he did not sink to his knees, he could not. His arms stretched and the sinews in his shoulders wrenched… tiny gasps for breath so the blades would pierce no deeper, no longer. His nerves shrilled in the pain and agony.

There was salt on his lips and he wept. He would never see Elrohir again. Blood slipped down the glass, a libation to Angmar. The Glass yielded like silk to the bony hand that reached out to him, stroked down his chest, swabbed his blood into the grey silk of the Glass which clung to him.

 _That is not how it was, Yôzâira_ , murmured Angmar, standing close in the Mirror, the skull's split grin.

 _See. This is what he has not told you:_

The mist cleared in the Glass and Legolas peered into it blearily. He had difficulty focusing now, his eyesight was dimming and he thought he was almost beyond recovery now. Through the Mirror, he could make out the outline of the black pines, the high mountains and there, through the darkness of the night upon the Mountain, was his beloved Elrohir and his weakened heart gave a little thump when he realised.

Elrohir had settled on a boulder and the darkness was almost upon him. He was higher, hidden amongst the black pine trees upon the ridge and looking down through the forest, down the mountainside to where there was a faint smoulder of orange flame. Legolas saw how Elrohir scowled in irritation and then something happened and he felt like he was moving, sliding forwards though he did not move, and into the thoughts, the body of his own Elrohir, saw what he saw, knew what he knew…

' _See. He sacrificed you. You…are…his… prize.'_

In the distance, Legolas could see through Elrohir's eyes; saw how Elrohir had been watching Legolas himself, crouching down and feeding the fire with twigs and bark until it kindled and was burning steadily….Painfully, Legolas tried to grasp the chains with his hands and to pull himself up a little, to ease the agony in his chest, to raise his head so he could fix his gaze on the beloved face in the Mirror, Elrohir, but his hands were slippery with blood and he could not get a grip on the cold chains.

Even so, he told himself weakly, though it be the past, to see Elrohir's beloved face once more. He was still a comfort, though it be the last time he looked upon him.

 _'_ _Fool. You think he did this for love?'_ The cruel, hard voice sneered at him.

'He did not know it was love. Not then,' Legolas whispered weakly.

 _'_ _It was not love. It was hate….You do not believe me?'_ The Witchking came close to Legolas. A hand grasped Legolas' scalp and dragged his head back so he had to look into the eyes of the Nazgûl.

In those empty black sockets, there was nothing but the Abyss. Vertigo plunged Legolas into the chasm of the dark beyond the Glass and there was nothing, endlessly dropping away beneath his feet, and above him, the huge vault of the Night. Ahead of him, nothingness stretched for eternity. He knew he was screaming because his throat hurt.

 _'_ _Be silent,'_ commanded the Lord of the Nazgûl.

And Legolas was. His voice froze in his throat. His chest constricted until there was no air and he was suspended in the Dark _._

 _'_ _Look. Feel. Hear.'_

And he was Elrohir, feeling as Elrohir, seeing what he saw…

 _…_ _.He has disobeyed me about the fire, thought Elrohir, feeling a surge of anger. Legolas, hanging in the darkness of the stone cell, could not look away, could not bear to hear and feel Elrohir's hatred and dark desire, for there was a swelling and stiffening of Elrohir's cock as he grew angry at Legolas' disobedience. Elrohir's skin felt scorched by the other Elf's nearness, his lungs filled with his scent, every nerve, every hair was alive to Legolas' presence, of the promise of him. Elrohir thrilled at Legolas' obedience for he had done everything Elrohir told him. Meekly. Submissive. Head bowed, shoulders slumped. Defeated. Until that last moment when Legolas had challenged him. Elrohir felt a shiver tremble across his skin, through his bones, thrum in his blood…and it had nothing to do with the cold._

 _Pain flared through him. Lust, violent lust. Those terrible passions brought him with a horrible start, as always, back to the cave...with the firelight flickering on the dank walls, the muffled panting and cries..._

 _...It had got worse since Legolas had come into his life. He could not forget, for he had stood there and watched. The flash of long pale hair, the orc shoving itself against the limp body...to his horror he felt himself stir and he clenched his fists and cried out, dug his nails into his own hands until the pain flickered on the edge of his consciousness._

 _He hated himself, hated Legolas for making him remember, making him feel a lust he tried so desperately to deny, to subdue in himself. It was Legolas who provoked him, the long winter-grass hair, the arrogance, the sweep of his laughing, teasing eyes, the brushes against Elrohir, the sheer sensual power of the Mirkwood warrior..._

 _Elrohir found himself hard and full of need. Legolas made him worse. He deliberately provoked and teased, without a thought, without a second glance. He should have been the one in the orc's cave… He should be chained, restrained, bound..._

 _Elrohir licked his lips, suddenly dry. Realising the scene that played itself over and over was the scene in the cave... But this time it did not matter that he watched and did nothing. It did not matter that he felt his own lust stir at the power of the orc shoving against that limp form, because this time it was Legolas' strong, lean body that writhed and struggled…And because it was Legolas, he deserved it. Because it was the long fall and sweep of winter-grass hair burnished gold by the firelight, and the yára-carmë painted on his skin, not blood, and Elrohir let his hand drift down the lean hips, and watched as the Elf's body was pounded and pumped…and when the Elf cried out, he deserved it, wanted it, and his head fell back with a cry..._

 _Blood pounded in his ears and he pressed the palm of his hand against his groin and heard a long moan from his own lips, unexpected and full of desire. He closed his eyes and let his long hair sweep down his back in a sensuous wave. He wanted to feel Legolas beneath him, to bury his hands in that sea of pale gold, to rip the sueded tunic apart and bare him to Elrohir's own greedy gaze. He wanted to push Legolas' head down over his own steaming sex and hold him there until he choked, to force him down to the ground and hold him there, to struggle with him, wrestle the strength and power into submission, to force the lean thighs apart and to plunge into him even as he imagined Eomer had, to ride him, to tame him, make him plead and beg…_

 _...ahhhhh, he felt a long surge through his belly and loins and leaned his trembling hand on a boulder….became aware of a strange prickling sensation in his fingers and toes._

 _It was now, he thought to himself. Slowly he drew Aícanaro. He leaned on it carefully, focused on the mithril runes that swirled and leapt along the blade, invoking its power. It was time. Then he let his long black hair fall over his face for what he was about to do and let himself sink into the mire of his dark lust. Now he would summon them… the Riders on the storm…the Nazgûl._

 _He conjured the images of his lust, the darkness, and sent them out reeling into the darkening night. He focused his powers, his heritage from Luthien, Melian, from his own father, and forced them to obey him, to send a long, soundless call up into the night. He closed his eyes and focused on the images that would summon the Nazgûl; the One Ring, hot with power, the strange lurid runes melted on that liquid surface as it burned, burned and molten. He saw the words…saw them and his lips moved as if he had no power to stop them …_

 _'Ash nazg durbatuluk,'_

 _The world stopped, held its breath._

 _'Ash nazg gimbatul.'_

 _Like a long sigh, the wind suddenly stirred and brushed through the treetops in the valley and on the slopes below, whirled around the mountain peaks. The thunder rumbled threateningly. The words were like ash in his mouth. But he took a breath that the wind seemed to snatch from his mouth as he spoke again..._

 _'Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'_

 _The words kindled and became like flames, hot, then burning, searing his tongue, but he did not stop. The wind howled about him, flattening his cloak against his body, storming the treetops so they waved and tossed like grass on the plains. He raised his head to the skies, threw his head back in the wind that pulled his hair into a long streaming black mane, and fixed his gaze to the dark heavens that lowered and roiled overhead, and lightning shot in his eyes._

 _He stood firm against the wind and conjured the images that seduced him to the darkness. He watched the firelight flicker over naked skin, watched the writhing torment, the rape. He let the darkness wind around his soul, let the shadow slither and coil about his limbs, envelop him in its velvet tempting darkness…He spoke more strongly, more loudly, summoning them…_

 _'Ash nazg durbatuluk,_

 _Ash nazg gimbatul,_

 _Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'_

 _And while the words seemed to melt and burn in his mouth and throat, he felt part of him was screaming, part of him howling. But he would not stop though the wind swirled and buffeted him on the cold mountainside, as if it sought to tear the words from his mouth before he could speak again…_

 _He shouted against the wind a third time…_

 _'Ash nazg durbatuluk,_

 _Ash nazg gimbatul,_

 _Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'_

 _And then he knew that all of him was lost to the darkness…_

 _Fire and flames rimmed the darkness and in the hellish glow he saw the promise that burned, the promise of Legolas should he, Elrohir, join them...it was as the Nazgûl had said that night on the city walls; the red glow on the elf's skin, bound, struggling, naked, helpless, subdued…ah, no._

 _Not quite. He thought of the flames reflecting in the elf's eyes and knew that Legolas would glare back defiantly, his generous mouth snarling in disgust. Elrohir saw the bloody smear where he had hit the elf across the mouth._

 _He watched his own hand as it drifted lower and stroked across the welts he had already left on Legolas' skin so there was more blood. He trailed his fingers through the blood, through the swirling painted yára-carmë of the elf's skin…and gripped him hard, his lean hips, dragging him forwards. And then with a sudden thrust, he watched himself impale his victim helplessly on the spear of flesh so it thrust into the captive elf, tangled his fingers in the wheat-pale hair and dragged his head back, muffled the cries with his own mouth. He felt the Woodelf writhe and struggle in his chains, against the rod of iron flesh that shoved into him again and again...he felt the warmth of his skin, the muscles slide beneath. He saw himself now with the elf pinned beneath him, held fast and his ecstasy as he plunged into the hot, tight body, so tight he could hardly penetrate and had to force himself in harder and harder, punishing him, subduing him._

 _He touched his fingers to his mouth and the words no longer burned but tasted coppery, of blood. Now he did not speak them for they had life and pounded towards him like flames, like shadow and flame on wings. The huge leathery wings pounded the sky, rode the thunder, brought the storm._

 _Above a high ridge, the sky split in two and forked lightning flashed across the thunderous sky. Huge raindrops splattered on the dry ground, and the smell of dust and dry pine needles scented the crackling air._

 _Then he heard it. The scream… the thin wail…high above and moving fast…_

 _Nazgûl. They came at his summons…_

…Legolas felt the spike of pain as a knife was drawn over his skin and the burn of blood ooze from the cut. A libation, it dripped sensuously, slowly onto the silver-grey silk surface of the Mirror and he was held suspended as the blood ran down the Mirror and seemed to be absorbed into the silvered surface. His long lean body was stretched and the Glass pressed around him like a shroud, soaking his blood. It covered his face and he thought he would suffocate.

 _You see how you are promised to him? You are his prize. He sold you to us._

The ghoul slowly bled him until his skin was clammy, cold. His body spasmed and shuddered. He no longer knew where he was or why; but it was Elrohir's face beneath the iron crown, his eyes desperate and full of yearning and sorrow.

At some point, a long time later, he was no longer fully conscious and felt himself slide from the cuffs about his wrists and slump over someone's shoulder. He was lowered to the ground and a thick cloak wrapped about him. He knew liquid was slowly slipped into his mouth and he felt a strange burning, thrilling sensation over the wounds in his body. Something soft and wet and warm swiped over the bloody wounds, the dried clotted blood and it felt strange, soothing and arousing at the same time. His head lolled back over one shoulder and he thought he saw Elrohir's lovely anguished face gazing down at him.

Has Elrohir done this to me? he wondered, bewildered.

Then his wounds were bandaged carefully and he was given small pieces of meat. It was raw and bloody but he did not care, knew he needed it to survive. More liquid was dripped slowly into his mouth and it thrust heat through him like the fire-spirit water of Dale.

He was barely conscious. 'Elrohir?' he whispered in misery and despair. For Elrohir had wanted his rape. He had known that, but not believed it. There was an amused, manic laugh. He was so cold, confused. As his eyes closed heavily, he grasped at the hands that held him; they were cold and bony.

0o0o

Barakhir pulled up, shaking his head, leaning down on the bit and fighting to escape the hands of his rider. Ahead of him, Baraghur turned and Elladan pulled back from the small troop.

'Elrohir! What is it?' Dimly Elrohir heard Elladan call but he ignored him for he swore he had heard Legolas call him. An erotic, charged cry of yearning and desire. And that _image_ again; Legolas stretched in chains, firelight flickering, licking his skin…

At his side, there was a long hiss and Aícanaro stretched in his sheath. In the pit of Elrohir's belly, the dark lust uncurled and raised its head from where it had slept, buried and forgotten amongst the confessions he had made to Legolas, of his secret thoughts and dark desires. But Legolas has forgiven me, thought Elrohir desperately, given me absolution.

 _It is not his to give,_ came a quiet voice, soft in its malice. _It is not him against whom you truly trespassed._

 _No! No!_ He thought that dreadful guilt had been exorcised. He thought he understood what had been the truth in the orc caves, that he had stood and watched for a moment, he had thought for a moment that he might rape what he thought was an orc-female for he was stirred by the sight of the rutting… _I did not rape. I hesitated, he cried._

 _As good as raped, came the soft voice of his own sickness. You might as well have._

 _Legolas forgave me._

 _Will he forgive his own rape as easily?_

He became dimly aware that Elladan was pulling on his arm and Glorfindel had reached over and pulled his face towards his own and was staring into his eyes with frightened concern.

0o0o

Aragorn could not sit silent and still, merely waiting for news from Beregond's search for Legolas. In the end, he rose, pulled a cloak over his shoulders, for the wind had changed and came from the East, bringing a late bitterness to what should be almost midsummer. He strode along the Rath Dinén and soon found himself beneath the city wall on the other side of the Royal Mews. Beregond was standing below the wall and watching the Tower Guard as they strung out and painstakingly searched for any sign of Legolas. They scrambled amongst the wild scrubland, streams and dismal gullies and channels of icy water and into the chasm below.

When he saw Aragorn, Beregond left the three other men clustered around the wall and made his way towards Aragorn.

'Your majesty,' Beregond bowed. 'We have found two things. I do not know if this is significant'

Beregond put something tiny into Aragorn's hand. It was a thread. Dark green. Only a thread that had caught on a bramble but Aragorn knew it instantly. He had seen Legolas picking at his sleeve more times than he could remember. It was from Legolas' tunic.

'There is this too.'

A long pale gold hair wound between the man's fingers.

'This is from Legolas,' he said slowly, one finger barely touching the long, long hair. Elf hair. Strong enough to thread a bow. In his belly was a cold hard stone of worry for his friend; how many days had he been missing? Seven now? Six? What if he were injured and lying alone in cold and pain? What would he tell Elrohir?

For many hours, nothing else was found. Not a footprint, nor anything to suggest that Legolas had passed that way. Beregond had signalled to the search to widen and spread out when a man straightened and looked about himself. His face was serious. When he caught Beregond's eye, he beckoned discreetly. Aragorn followed Beregond, clambering down the steep side of the chasm towards the man.

When they reached him, the man opened his hand and Aragorn leaned over, peering at it. A glint of silver. It was domed, bright with polish and wear. The white tree was etched carefully onto it.

Aragorn's breath caught and he stared. He knew that Beregond too realised its significance for he said nothing but took the button, turned and thanked the man and bid him say nothing to anyone but continue his search.

But Aragorn realised he was no longer concentrating. When he stared at the ground, searching for the lightest trace of footprint or trace of Legolas, all he could see was that button.

At last a hand was gently laid on his sleeve. He looked up to see the concerned, pudgy face of Aradhel. With surprise he saw that the sun had gone down and Beregond was gathering his men about him and preparing to finish. 'We will continue in the morning, sire,' he said. 'I know a hunter in the Pelennor who has used his dogs to find a missing child. Perhaps they will find the lord Legolas.' But he did not look hopeful.

Back in the Palace, Aradhel bustled around Aragorn, summoning servants, food, drink, lit the fire in the hearth. But Aragorn barely noticed. Sitting at his desk, he stared at the three small objects that Beregond now placed before him; the long golden hair, the thread of dark green, and the silver button etched with the White Tree.

He did not know how long he had sat in silence, staring, barely thinking. Frozen with indecision.

Aragorn picked up the small thread between his thumb and forefinger and stared at it minutely. The dark green-grey was muted, unmistakable. Not silk but strong enough to sew the frayed cuffs of a sueded moss-green tunic.

Aradhel stood mutely, watching while Aragorn's fingers paused over the silver button.

'This does not belong to Legolas,' Aragorn said softly. 'Is it worn by the Tower Guard?' he asked hopefully, glancing up at Aradhel. But both of them already knew the Guard did not have the White Tree upon their buttons. Those were reserved.

'No, your majesty.' Aradhel spoke softly, reluctantly. 'Only the Steward of Gondor is allowed these.'

Aragorn was silent. He fingered the button, staring down at it. They had found nothing more. Only the slightest trail that led from the stream up to an empty cave that ended in nothing.

Aradhel looked down at Aragorn with compassion. 'My lord,' he said softly. 'Is there anything you want me to do?'

'No,' Aragorn replied. He still did not look up. 'Go home Aradhel. Go and see your good wife. I will see you in the morning.'

Aradhel did not move for a moment and hesitated, on the brink of speaking. But in the end, he did not and with a sigh, he turned and left.

The sun had sunk behind the mountains now and long shadows crept over the rose garden, over the city. One by one, the small lights flickered on in the city below, in the windows of the houses, the taverns. The lights of the Watch. A bell tolled to close the city gates, and then another and another until all seven bells of the seven levels had signalled the gates were closing for the day and the city settled down.

A manservant came in and stoked the fire in the hearth, trimmed the wicks of the lamps and candles, and left. Aragorn shifted slightly and grunted a thank you.

He was alone now.

Legolas was gone. Vanished. He had no idea where his friend was. But he knew the button. Only the Stewards wore such buttons. He remembered Denethor from long ago, his tunic had a row of such buttons. Boromir's cloak fastened with the same. And he had seen them on Faramir's tunic, on the cuffs of the shirt he had been wearing this morning. One had been missing.

Aragorn leaned his forehead on his hand and half closed his eyes. He could not imagine why Faramir could possibly wish any ill upon Legolas. And when he had questioned the young Man earlier, he had been so convincing, had insisted he was not party to Legolas' disappearance.

 _But Faramir has lied._

 _It is his button. No one else wears them._

Aragorn shook his head. He did not believe Faramir had anything to do with this. He could have just lost it up there at any time.

 _And what could he have been doing up there? Scrambling about the wilderness? And if not him, then who?_

A shape detached itself from the shadows in the rose garden and drifted through the paths. The moon had risen and the moonlight caught on its white face, haggard eyes. The elongated jaw and sunken cheeks seemed ghoulish and unrecognisable at first and Aragorn had reached for his knife.

'Majesty,' Bearos swept a bow and when he raised his head, Aragorn blinked. It must have been the moonlight that had momentarily made the Man look …ghoulish. But it was only Bearos, a simple huntsman who had found gold and come to the city for a better chance for his wife to give birth to their baby. Aragorn smiled and relaxed, let his hand fall to his side.

'I am glad to see you, my friend,' said the King softly. He felt strangely relieved, as if he didn't have to think about this anymore because Bearos would do the thinking for him.

He slung an arm over Bearos' shoulder and guided him into the study. 'Join me in a cup of wine if your wife can spare you.' He poured two goblets of wine. Good wine, rich and red for Bearos and the King. Not the thin, acidic stuff he had become accustomed to.

'My wife will not miss me.' Bearos smiled slightly and drank the wine, it stained his mouth, his sharp teeth and Aragorn frowned for a moment but the strangeness passed. Bearos was unprepossessing, unremarkable.

'You are troubled, my liege,' murmured Bearos. 'Can I not unburden you? Tell me what ails you?' His voice slid carefully between Aragorn's thoughts, insinuated itself in his doubts and dug is claws deep. 'Ah. The Stewards sigil.' He indicated the silver button.

Aragorn sighed and ran his hand through his hair. 'Legolas is missing still and Beregond found this where Legolas seems to have gone over the wall. But Faramir has already denied all knowledge of Legolas' disappearance.'

Bearos smiled sadly. 'He is his father's son.' He spread his hands on the desk in front of him and Aragorn thought dimly that this was a gesture he made himself; Bearos was like him. Aragorn could trust him. 'So have they found our beloved Lord Legolas?'

And when Aragorn bowed his head in despair, Bearos reached out and clasped his hand. Aragorn stared at the warm red ruby of Bearos' ring. It was like an eye…but then he saw he was wrong. Not an eye. But warmth. Like a fire in the hearth. Like home.

'You have no choice now, my dear lord.' Bearos' face was warm, concerned. His mouth turned down in sympathy and he patted Aragorn's arm in the way that Gimli often did.

Aragorn covered his face with his hands. 'Arrest Faramir?' He shook his head, 'I cannot. He has been so loyal, so…abused by his father that he will never trust me again.'

Bearos sighed. 'I know. I am very fond of him too…But where is the Lord Legolas?' he suddenly cried in despair. He shoved his chair back and paced the room anxiously, gesticulating. 'It is...how many days since he vanished? Six? Seven? Where is he?' He turned back to Aragorn. 'He could be injured… wounded and lying somewhere unable to get help? Or perhaps…' He leaned down now, close to Aragorn, his eyes wide and afraid, 'Perhaps he has been imprisoned somewhere against his will? He may be hurt, bleeding slowly to death.'

Aragorn stared at the Man. 'What makes you think that?' he asked suddenly frightened for he saw how easily that could be true! 'Why do you think he is imprisoned?'

Bearos straightened, spreading his hands wide. 'You have been thinking the same, Sire. This ghoul,' he waved his hands, 'has been targeting him, has it not? No one else has seen it but it stalked him in the city and tried to kill him, threw a knife at him!' And here, an image of that knife appeared in Aragorn's mind; Faramir's knife. 'It lured him to the Rath Dínen where it had left the guardsman's body. Legolas has disappeared over the wall to the Hallows, just about where the button was found.' And Aragorn 's eyes were drawn to that button with its sigil of the White Tree. 'Faramir alone wears those. They are reserved for the Steward.' He sat down again and looked at Aragorn with compassion and understanding. 'You have thought the same as I, my King.'

Bearos sighed again and looked down at his hands. Aragorn followed his gaze and started; the Man's fingernails were almost talons! His fingers bony and white.

He glanced up at Bearos who seemed to have realised for he curled his fingers and drew his sleeves over his hands for a moment, but then he spread his hands again and Aragorn thought he must have been dreaming before for there was nothing of note; just the ruby ring that glowed.

'You are tired, your majesty. Exhausted. You have worked yourself to the bone. Aradhel has not allowed you to rest. He is driving you too hard…' Bearos smiled ruefully. 'But in the meantime, my lord, Legolas is still missing. And Faramir knows where he is.'

'You cannot think he is the Ghoul, or knows something of the Ghoul?' Aragorn protested.

Bearos looked away, leaned back in his chair and seemed to hesitate. Then, as if he had decided something, he turned back to Aragorn and looked him in the eye. 'I have to ask you this then. How is that Faramir alone returned from the assault on Osgiliath?'

Aragorn frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'Of all the Men who rode out to fight the Enemy, it was Faramir alone who survived…why? He was there long enough to have been captured.'

Aragorn pondered. 'He was sent back to goad Denethor to despair surely?'

'Exactly!' Bearos moved closer and the candlelight gleamed in the ring on his finger. 'Faramir is mysteriously returned, almost unharmed….He was caught in a spell of the Witchking of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl. Who knows what might have been done, or what spell might have been set deep in his heart.' Bearos held his gaze unflinching. 'How can we know, my lord? It will not be his fault. He is the victim of the Nazgûl. He says he knows nothing. Perhaps he does not in truth! Perhaps this…dark spell is deep below his awareness.' Bearos let a finger trail over the silver button. 'You must at least confront him with the evidence, my lord. We must at least ascertain that this is his and when he lost it. After all, if it is years ago, then we must not waste any more time considering it.' He smiled reassuringly and leaned forwards slightly and held Aragorn's gaze. 'Let us hope for a convincing explanation, Sire.'

0o0

Later, in his large, soft bed with its heavy quilts and furs, Aragorn could not settle. Thoughts of Faramir and Legolas swirled and rattled like dry leaves in the wind. Surely it was not Faramir who had lured Legolas to some dreadful fate? But he could not account for the knife in the Ghoul's possession, or the button lying exactly where Legolas had gone over the wall.

He threw a pillow onto the hard wooden floor and pulled a few blankets onto the fur rug that lay before the fire. He could not sleep in the soft bed. He put his hands behind his head and let his hand drift over the Evenstar. And his mind cleared like the moon coming out from behind clouds.

Without doubt, Legolas had gone over the wall and into the wild that surrounded the Hallows. The hair and thread proved that. There was only one reason why he would have done that so suddenly, Aragorn thought. Legolas must have seen the ghoul that he said he saw the night he discovered Ioralas' body.

So who, or what is the ghoul?

Gandalf had believed it was connected with the Mirror somehow but that had gone with Kustîg and Gandalf had lost the trail…So the ghoul was not connected with the Mirror? The ghoul was still in Minas Tirith?

Or Legolas had gone with someone he trusted. Followed them at their behest. Because he trusted whoever it was….like Faramir.

Faramir's button had been found by Beregond's men. There was no question it was Faramir's. No question it had been dropped or ripped from a sleeve or tunic. It was still bright, untarnished. It had not been out there for long.

Aragorn shifted restlessly. Legolas had been missing for almost a week. Aragorn picked at his fingernails anxiously. He knew that Legolas could survive far longer than a Man without food or water even, but seven days without water? And supposing he was injured? Or worse?

Unable to sleep, he threw the covers off, his knees clicked as he rose to his feet. He could not rest until his friend was found. Rummaging in the vast wardrobes full of rich and costly robes, he found his old ranger's cloak, robe and boots and pulled these on. But when he opened the door, a Tower guard stood to attention, and when Aragorn passed him, the guard looked alarmed and followed him. 'Your majesty?' he asked quietly. 'Where do you go? Shall I inform the captain? Or the Steward?'

Aragorn breathed. He paused and then turned back to his chamber. 'No,' he said resigned. After all, what would he do? The trail was cold and he would find nothing more in the middle of the night. He would, it seemed, have to trust in Bearos' judgement and see Faramir in the morning.

0o0o


	31. Chapter 31 Arrest

Thank you to LayneWolf, Anon, chasingbluefish, samui etc for their ideas which have got us to this point! And to Gabriel who reminded me of something:) Also naledi, Narya, Spiced, Fadestothewest, Nako and freddie- and welcome back to my very dear Melusine.

Beta: Anarithilien. Thank you:)

Chapter 31: Arrest

Frodo sat in the cosy chair by the fire, Lobelia curled on his lap and digging her claws into his thighs. He didn't mind for he felt that he owed it to Legolas and whilst he was not here, Frodo would care for the little cat. He stroked her fur which had become softer and finer the longer she lived with them, and her little body thrummed with delight at his attentiveness. Behind him, Sam was bustling about setting breakfast and Merry and Pippin were shouting to each other upstairs as they went about their ablutions. There was a thump as one of them dropped something and Merry's voice raised in irritation. And then Pippin, defensive, just as cross.

Frodo sighed; his two cousins had become increasingly irritable with each other. They were anxious about Legolas and upset that Faramir was being implicated. It made them both tetchy. When Pippin and Frodo had returned home the previous night from visiting Beregond, they found Merry and Sam sitting dismally in the garden having found neither hide nor hair of the woman pretending to be Ioralas' mother and the house she had taken Merry and Legolas to empty and abandoned.

Above him, there were raised voices again and this time, Sam stopped what he was doing and both he and Frodo looked up. Then Frodo caught Sam's eye and for a moment they looked at each other, both remembering that there had been a time when they thought they would never hear Merry or Pippin's voices again, never be comfortable and Frodo certainly never thought he would have a small, determined little cat on his lap.

He thought about the events of the previous days as he stroked Lobelia, wishing he could reach his pipe without dislodging her for it was just out of reach. An unpleasant sensation lingered after their meeting with Aragorn; none of them could quite shake off the feeling that Aragorn had not been as certain of Faramir's innocence as they, and there was something deeply unsettling about Bearos' presence and his influence over Aragorn. But Beregond had inadvertently let slip that there was a search on for Legolas and that order could only have come from Aragorn. He was taking the Hobbits' concern seriously.

And Bergil had promised to find the boy who had brought the message from Gimli. That message was currently on the small table next to him, with Frodo's pipe upon it just out of reach.

Lobelia head-butted Frodo softly, and then meowed loudly and imperiously and he glanced down, smiling and obliged. With the other hand, he rubbed his old wound absently for it throbbed dully.

'What will we do with Lobelia when we eventually go home?' he said out loud.

Sam suddenly stopped what he was doing. 'Aren't we taking her with us?' he said in disbelief.

Frodo thought for a while. 'It is a very long way for a cat to travel, Sam. How will we carry her?'

Sam came up beside Frodo and reached down to stroke Lobelia's head. She pushed her head up into his hand as if she simply could not get enough. Frodo chewed his lip; Sam was Lobelia's favourite, since Legolas had gone anyway.

'Perhaps Gimli can make something,' Sam suggested and Frodo noted a little note in Sam's voice, of upset.

'Yes, of course he can,' Frodo said as if he had not thought that before. Lobelia meowed loudly, demandingly as if she knew what they were talking about and refused to be left behind.

But any further discussion was stopped by the sound of the clang of their garden gate being thrown back and a moment later, hammering on their front door.

Sam and Frodo stared at each other and before they could react, Pippin had flown down the stairs and thrown open the door.

'Bergil!' he said in surprise. 'It's Bergil,' he shouted unnecessarily down the hallway to the other hobbits. 'Come in,' he invited.

Frodo heard Bergil stamp his feet on the mat and then he was in the kitchen, hat in his hand and consternation in his face.

'Oh, Master Frodo, Master Samwise,' Bergil said. He was distressed and wrung his hat in his hands. 'Pippin, I hardly know what to think! My lord, Faramir has been arrested. He is not allowed to leave his house and no one can see him. My father is guarding him. He is not allowed to tell anyone but no one is allowed to see Faramir and he is not allowed to speak to anyone or send any letters or anything.'

When he took a breath, Pippin managed to help him to sit down and a horrified Sam pushed a hot cup of tea in the boy's hands. 'Slowly now, Bergil. Start from the beginning,' Frodo said sensibly.

Bergil took a slurp of tea and winced for it scalded his tongue. But it settled him. 'Oh masters! It is such a to do! My father is in such turmoil but I cannot tell anyone else but you for it is forbidden to even speak of it!'

'Wait, who has forbidden anyone to speak of this that you cannot tell us but has you so upset?' Pippin said confused.

Frodo rolled his eyes. 'Who has said you cannot speak of this?'

Bergil looked at them frightened and confused. 'It is the King. Early this morning he told my father to arrest the Steward and to keep him in his house but he cannot speak of it to anyone.'

'Aragorn ordered that?' cried Pippin.

'He has had Faramir arrested?' Frodo said in horror. 'But why?'

'They found something. Yesterday when they searched for the Lord Legolas. They looked around the Mews and on the other side of the wall. My father says they have found evidence that Legolas did indeed go over the wall. A hair, a thread from his sleeve.'

The hobbits looked at each other in disbelief. 'Why hasn't Aragorn told us?' demanded Pippin. 'Why didn't he send a message yesterday?'

'Because they found something else, didn't they, Bergil?' Frodo asked carefully.

The boy nodded and Frodo held his breath. Please Eru, let it not be a body, he prayed and he knew he was not alone.

'A button,' Bergil said at last and there was a collective exhale of breath.

'A button!' Pippin threw himself into a chair and ran his hands over his curly head. 'Thank goodness for that!'

'But what was it about this button?' Merry came closer now and watched the boy carefully. Frodo glanced at his cousin and they shared a look of understanding. 'It is Faramir's, isn't it?'

Bergil nodded miserably and twisted his cap in his hands again. 'Oh, it is a calamity! Faramir would never…He couldn't…' And he hung his head.

Sam tutted and leaned over gently patting Bergil's shoulder and Pippin handed him a handkerchief. 'How do you know it's Faramir's?' Pippin asked.

Bergil blew his nose and too late, Frodo realised it was one of the handkerchiefs that Thranduil had given Bilbo. But it didn't really matter, he thought. Faramir was in the keeping of Beregond, but at least it was the Captain and not someone else, not that Bearos, for example, he thought with a shudder.

'It has the White Tree on it. Only the Stewards can wear those,' Bergil replied, sniffing.

'But someone could have put it there,' Pippin said loyally. 'it would be really easy to take one and just drop it.'

'That's what I said to my father,' Bergil agreed. 'But he has said I must keep quiet and not speak of this. It is the King's business and he has commanded silence.' He looked around at the hobbits nervously but then his face became more resolved. 'But I am telling you because I know you can do something. You are the King's friends but you are also the Ringbearers and Heroes of the War. If anyone can sort it out, it's you.'

Pippin humphed and pushed himself to his feet. "And you are right, Bergil. We will sort this out right now.' He looked around at Frodo, Sam and Merry, challenging. 'So, who's coming with me?'

'We all are,' Frodo said soothingly. 'But first, Bergil, did you find out who took that message?'

Bergil plunked himself back down on the chair and shook his head. 'That's just it. No one knows anything about it. Not the gatekeepers, nor the Chief Post down in the harbour. Aradhel takes all the messages from the posts and he doesn't know anything either. It didn't come from the docks.'

Frodo glanced at Merry. 'Then the message came from somewhere else. Perhaps it was not from Gimli at all.'

'But it was in Gimli's hand,' Merry said.

'Well, we are no further on with that mystery,' Frodo said decisively. He carefully encouraged Lobelia onto the cushion of his chair and eased out from under her. 'We will have to leave that for now and see Aragorn instead. We need to find out what he is doing with Faramir.'

But when they reached the palace, they were told that the King was in urgent council and could not be disturbed for anyone. Not even the lords Periannath. They were shown courteously into an ante-chamber and servants brought them dainties and pastries, hot beverages and cold. But not even Pippin felt like eating and sat on the too high chair and swung his feet disconsolately.

'How long does a council go on for?' he asked after five minutes.

Frodo sighed. It was going to be a very long wait. 'We will not leave until we have seen Aragorn,' he said decisively and Pippin sighed in resignation.

0o0o

Faramir paced restlessly, striding through the high ceilinged rooms that were now the Steward's House since Aragorn had returned and the Stewards' Palace became the King's.

He could not believe what was happening. He stopped before a window and stared out over the gleaming rooftops of the city. It had rained in the night and the sun gleamed on the terracotta rooves and white stone walls and pavements. Outside his house, lime trees unfurled in the early Summer sun and birds sang brightly. In the square, he could hear the awakening city; the voices of merchants and sellers, the clop of horses' hoofs, patrols leaving or arriving; voices below his windows. One voice asking to see him.

Merry!

Faramir fumbled to open the shutters of the window.

'The Steward is busy, my lord,' The guard's voice floated to where Faramir stood. "He can see no one today. He does the work of the King.'

'He will not mind me disturbing him,' came Merry's voice. Insistent.

Faramir paused. To open the window and call out would disregard the order of the King. And he would not do that. He owed Aragorn his allegiance, even now under suspicion, and he could not blame Aragorn for he understood how the King was placed, how difficult it was to ignore so much evidence that seemed to be increasingly stacked against Faramir.

'I am sorry, my lord. The King's order is that the Steward be allowed to work unhindered.' The guard's voice was firm. Clearly, he believed what he had been told and Faramir bowed his head. No one yet knew that he had been arrested. Although it would creep out soon enough. And then what? There would be uproar.

Despondent, Faramir turned away and walked back up the stairs to the upper rooms where the windows looked out over the rose gardens and then beyond to Rohan: Eowyn was there, for she had returned with Eomer until their wedding plans had been made. His white lady, his beloved. His warrior maiden and princess.

What would she think when she heard how suspicion was laid upon her betrothed?

And what would she think when she heard the reason: that he was suspected of having lured Legolas to some terrible doom? For she loved the Elf for their shared adventures. When they had been recovering together in the Houses of Healing, she had told Faramir how together she and Legolas had defeated Saruman and cast him from Théoden's sick and raddled body, how Legolas had trussed up Grima when she would have killed him. Faramir had been star-struck by her beauty, overwhelmed by her passion, her courage, and daring. And a little jealous of the depth of her love for Legolas, her wild adventures with her elven companion. He had looked upon Legolas's handsome face, his dashing elegance and thought she must be in love with the Elf. How could she not be? For though she had indeed been in love with the idea of Aragorn it was only an idea. Whereas to Eowyn, Legolas was far more than some romantic and unattainable idea.

But that could be seen as a motive, he saw now. He was not the only one to have noted how close Eowyn was to Legolas, how they laughed, how the Elf bent his head to her attentively and listened smiling to what she said.

'Elbereth, what have I done?' he said aloud. How had this happened? How had he ended up like this?

There was a shuffle of feet below in the hallway. He leaned over the iron wrought balustrade and looked into the stairwell. Wide steps led down into a chequered black and white tiled hallway where there were the substantial doors that opened onto the square. Two guards stood outside now and refused to allow anyone in. Except this visitor it seemed.

'Bearos!' he called in relief. Bearos looked up, his face filled with concern.

'Faramir! Are you well? I do not know what has happened here but I promise you I will do all in my power to have you freed!'

Faramir ran down the steps and clasped Bearos' arm in gratitude.

'Come, tell me what has happened?' Bearos said, hurrying alongside Faramir towards the Stewards' study. 'No one is allowed to see you, speak to you even.' His voice was concerned, anxious. 'I persuaded the King to let me see you, that it is better I ask you about things so I may represent you, talk to him on your behalf.'

Faramir closed his eyes. 'I do not know what has happened. Just that the King has ordered my arrest. Although he has allowed me to remain here and not imprisoned me. For that I am grateful.' He slumped into a chair and leaned his head on his hands. 'What am I to do?'

Bearos pulled the chair opposite him and sat down, feet apart and hands braced on his knees. It was a pose that Boromir used to adopt and it made Faramir smile slightly for he missed his brother.

'The King has instructed me to question you. He has allowed me this rather than anyone else. We have to find out what has happened to make the King mistrust you.'

Faramir leaned forwards and clasped Bearos' arm again, as if he needed the warmth. 'The King is merciful and good. He must have a reason for this. But I am reassured of his love that he has sent you to my side, Bearos. He will listen to you.'

Bearos smiled and nodded. 'Come then, let us look at these charges and I will scribe your response.' He drew from his robe a scroll and untied it, busily looking at the script as if he had never seen it before. He frowned and glanced at Faramir briefly before returning his gaze to the scroll. Finally, he shook his head. 'They have nothing in truth. Naught but a knife thrown at the Elf, and a button found on the other side of the city wall. Not enough to prove anything.' He spread the parchment on the table and picked a new quill from Faramir's desk. Faramir resisted craning his neck to see what was written, but the script was neat, little black letters that spelled his treachery, Faramir thought miserably. It looked like Aradhel's hand, he thought, and knew the fat little clerk would have written it with care and though he would not protest, he would have gently questioned Aragorn as he wrote. So Aragorn had not just rushed through this without thought or care…on a whim. He must have real cause for thinking Faramir was involved, he thought.

'What we need to work out though, is what happened after you spoke with the ostler. As I recall, you wanted to see him about a new horse for the King.'

'Yes. You told me he had charged me with this task.'

Bearos pursed his lips, thinking. 'I am sorry, I do not recall that.' Then he looked up and seeing Faramir's concern, smiled briefly. 'But no matter. I am sure you are right. Tell me what happened.'

Faramir frowned. 'You told me the King had suggested he had a new horse for ceremonial affairs. Something showy and …' He looked at Bearos who returned the look steadily. 'You do not remember? It was the day after Herion died. We had been talking about removing the old families from their great houses to make room for new Houses of Healing. You said the King had expressed a desire for a new horse for ceremonial purposes, the people like it, you said.' He looked at Bearos' faintly puzzled face and wondered why the advisor was unable to recollect it. Then he shook his head; perhaps it did not matter. 'Never mind. I am sure it matters not who suggested it.'

'Very well.' Bearos nodded. 'So you wanted to go and talk to the ostler about it. As I recall, my lord, it seemed most urgent.'

Faramir frowned. He did recall it now; he could not explain why it had seemed so important that they had had to go and see Thadion, the chief ostler right then, and his impatience had been overwhelming. But he could not say why.

'You wanted me to accompany you,' Bearos continued after a moment. 'We went together to the mews, and I returned. You stayed and then returned by the rose garden.'

Faramir glanced at the Man quickly; his head was bent over the parchment, writing. The quill scratched at the page and there was a spatter of ink on his fingers. For a moment, Faramir thought he held the quill oddly, as if his fingers were cramped and the fingernails seemed excessively long and pointed. Was that blood dried under his nails?

And then Bearos looked up and Faramir shook his head. Here was his friend, still willing to risk everything to help him. He smiled, relieved that he had Bearos on his side. 'I am sure it was you who was keen that we resolved which horse the King had. It seemed so important at the time though I cannot remember now why that was.'

Bearos lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. 'Yes, **_you_** were anxious that the King was happy. You are so loyal and true!' he exclaimed suddenly and looked away, emotional. 'I am sorry. It distresses me to think that he does not realise your value, that you would never do anything to hurt Gondor.'

'Please, do not be distressed on my part, good Bearos,' Faramir protested, but he was so warmed by the other Man's friendship and loyalty. 'I am sure this is just a misunderstanding and when you put my case to the King, he will realise.'

Bearos nodded, looking down as if relieved and gathering his overwrought emotions together. 'Yes…yes…yesyes.' His teeth clacked as Faramir had noticed they did when the Man was upset or nervous, anxious that he had not pleased.

'Let us continue then, good friend, and we will make our case to the King.'

'Yesyes…I will have you out of here and back in his favour by nightfall.' Bearos smiled and Faramir saw his eyes were red-rimmed and sore.

'Have you stayed awake all night over this?' he exclaimed and when Bearos looked away abashed, he exclaimed, 'My dear friend! You flatter me with such devotion!'

'I cannot bear to see how he has cast you aside,' Bearos burst out and then closed his mouth abruptly. 'Forgive me for speaking so recklessly. I am tired,' he admitted. 'And upset. Let us continue and secure your release.' He seemed to gather himself and then proceeded. 'When you returned from the mews, you saw no one, heard nothing?'

Faramir thought for a moment. 'No. Not really. I certainly did not see Legolas.'

'Very well.' Bearos scribbled notes furiously.

'Now.' Bearos straightened and looked Faramir in the eye. 'There is other evidence that we have to account for.' He was serious but compassionate too, sympathetic, thought Faramir and believed himself lucky to have a friend like Bearos who would brave the King's ire for him. 'The knife that was thrown at Legolas was yours. How did that come to be missing?'

Faramir shook his head. 'I have no idea. I do not use it. It hangs in my study. Anyone who came here could have taken it. The sheath was still here and so I did not realise it had gone until the King showed it to me.'

'And there is also the matter of a button.'

'A button?'

Slowly Bearos pulled out a small bright silver button. It was domed and upon it was the sigil of the White Tree. Faramir stared. 'Where did you get this?'

Bearos pressed his lips together uncomfortably. 'This is what they found on the other side of the city walls. They found an Elf hair and a thread from the sleeve of his tunic as well. Unquestionably Legolas passed that way. It seems that you may have passed that way too and this button was torn from your coat?'

Faramir stared. 'I …I have not been there,' he said nervously. He frowned. 'Someone is making sure this looks like me,' he said suddenly. 'Anyone could steal a button, not just from my coat but from the seamstresses who make the Tower Guard uniforms, my clothes. Someone who hates me is setting me up. Bearos,' he said suddenly, 'Who hates me enough to do this? Who are my enemies? I did not even know I had them.'

Bearos leaned his arms over the parchment and met Faramir's gaze. 'You are a threat to the King. You know this. The old families will rise up when they hear that you have been arrested, even under suspicion.' He gave Faramir a long, significant look. 'To accuse you of treason would be convenient. Boromir has gone, his death…. well, in battle it is easy to not answer a summons. Your brother's horn was sounded, the Hobbits say, but no one came to his aid.' Bearos shrugged.

Faramir stared at him in shock. 'You suggest they ignored him? No! You cannot mean the King is behind this? That he has deliberately planted evidence against me? That would mean he is behind his own friend's disappearance!'

Slowly, Bearos shrugged. 'How well do we know this Man from the North? He led an army of the Dead, they say. So, is he a sorcerer? He lived with the Elves, was brought up by them. He says…'

Faramir listened in horror. 'Stop! This is treason.' He shook his head at Bearos. 'You must not speak it, think it. Do not harbour it in your heart. I do not believe it of Aragorn either. He is a good Man. He brought me back from the Black Breath. He could not do that if he was not…'

'…was not a sorcerer,' Bearos interrupted.

They stared at each other in an intense moment, hardly daring to breathe and Faramir looked into the other's eyes; surely he did not think that Aragorn had conjured this ghoul? That he was somehow behind Legolas' disappearance.

'We do not even know if his friend is truly in danger?' Bearos persisted quietly. 'For all we know, he could be in on this as well. After all, no one but he has seen this ghoul? No one saw it throw the knife at him? And he has simply vanished, but who is to say he is not hiding out somewhere and part of a plot to malign you?'

Faramir felt a strange compulsion then, to nod in agreement.

 _He seeks to destroy you._

'Why would he wish to destroy me?' He could still not believe it.

Bearos shrugged and spread his hands in that appeasing gesture that Faramir found so reassuring. The red stone on his finger winked in the sunlight, glowed warmly.

 _You will always be a threat to him._

'The old families would follow you.'

'No. I would rather flee and take away this problem that I have become. I will go back into Ithilien and…and..'

Bearos watched him kindly. 'And what?'

'Live my life,' Faramir said simply. 'I am not made for court life. I am no Steward. I am not my father or my brother!' He rose to his feet and took a few short steps and turned back to Bearos. 'Tell the King I will leave Gondor if he wishes it. I would not come between him and his throne. I will not be cause of discord in our city.' He let a breath that he did not know he had been holding. 'Tell him I will leave and swear to him that I will not return. He does not need to do this.'

And at this, Bearos bowed his head as if in agreement and Faramir felt a deep despair; he had believed Aragorn to be more than he was, that he was somehow the salvation of Gondor. But it was turning out that he was, after all, a mere Man. And as ambitious and afraid as Denethor had been.

When Bearos had gone, and Faramir sat in silence in his library, he wondered how he could have been so easily beguiled by the new King. He had never felt such warmth and compassion as he had with Aragorn. He had never trusted anyone as much. And now, here was a plot against him devised it seemed, by the King no less and one that would see Faramir denounced as a murderer. Even perhaps a traitor.

He picked up a quill and pulled the barbs from it, one by one.

No. It was too preposterous. Aragorn had brought him back from the Black Breath and its cold death of the soul. And Mithrandir had brought Aragorn to Gondor. He was Isildur's Heir; Mithrandir said so.

 _Mithrandir has lied before. Your father never trusted him. He will do anything to achieve his purpose._

 _And that is not always Gondor's purpose._

Bearos was right in one thing; he did not really know this Man, this Ranger from the North.

0o0o0

Bearos rubbed his hands together and the bones clicked and snapped. His eyes were bright, eager. Greedy. He had a little time left, he knew, felt the approach of the storm that was Ravéyön, the Master. The Lord. There were things he had yet to do and he hurried now, along the path that linked the Steward's House to the Palace. The Usurper was his, doing his bidding, closeted away from those who would advise him otherwise but the Zigrun was here; Bearos, Khamûl could feel the crackle and spark of his presence. He would disrupt the Work and so Bearos hurried faster. Only a little while left for this shape and he could let go. There would be a new master. One more worthy of Khamûl. One upon whose hand, Khamûl would glow with pride.

0o0o0

Gimli followed Gandalf through the winding streets of Minas Tirith, feeling a strange sense of homecoming, even in this alien city of Men. Around them, the citizens parted, smiling and nodding and some greeted them both in a friendly manner. A cart pulled by a black and white horse trundled towards them and they stepped out of its path. All around was the bustle of the city slowly returning to normality after the war. Near the shattered walls of the second level where Sauron's army had broken through, piles of stone had been hauled and now builders and masons were standing, discussing plans. One had a pencil stuck behind his ear and was pointing at the gap in the walls. Three men listened carefully, nodding gravely and following the line of his finger. Gimli itched to stop and listen, to talk, for he felt the good stone beneath his feet crying out for his touch, to be aligned and cut in lean lines, to be carefully engineered into something new and strong.

But he longed to see his friends again and so he ignored the call of his heart and followed Gandalf's long strides.

'Here I will leave you,' Gandalf said briskly when they reached the gate of the house of the Fellowship. 'I must inform Aragorn that the Mirror must yet be here somewhere in the city, unless it has been taken out by another means.' He shook his head in irritation at himself. 'And I have been blind in my haste. Or blinded, and fooled in my rush.'

Gimli nodded and turned away, pushing open the garden gate as the Wizard strode off towards the palace. Gimli fished a key from the deep pocket of his tunic and pushed it into the door. He was looking forward to a hot bath, clean hair and beard, and intended to use those perfumed, precious oils he had found in Umbar and were now carefully stowed away in his pack.

And he had missed the Hobbits. And Legolas. He had much to tell and had enjoyed thinking up embellishments on the voyage home that would make Legolas jealous that he had not been the one to go with Gandalf.

'Ho! Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!' he bellowed cheerfully in what he felt was a humorous greeting.

There was silence.

Frowning, he leaned his axe against the wall and made his way down the short flight of stairs to the kitchen. There was no fire in the grate and the ashes were cold. Curled up on the best chair was the small cat. She raised her head sleepily and yawned widely. Gimli stroked her head and she began purring loudly.

'Where is everyone, Azaghâl?' he asked amused.

The house was empty.

No Hobbits. No Elf.

There were signs of the Hobbits, hats, gloves, jackets, umbrellas stuffed haphazardly in cloakstands and so on. But no actual Hobbits.

He went upstairs to Legolas' room and glanced around. No weapons. Whatever Legolas was doing, he had taken everything. He frowned at the small mirror above the chest of drawers that had been turned over so the glass faced the wall, and turned it about. He caught sight of his own face briefly. Concerned. And went back downstairs.

Legolas had not been here for a while, he could tell. So where was he? And the Hobbits were not here although the cat was fed and there was food in the cupboard. Washing up drying on the side.

Gimli sighed and unpacked his own baggage, placed his axe carefully over the mantelpiece on the hooks he had put up for the purpose. He took off his bronze vambraces and emptied out the roulettes hidden in the lining, spun them lightly and set them to one side for cleaning and oiling. Then he took off his boots and wriggled his toes in relief. He bent down and unclipped the steel toecaps, pulled out the thin dirks concealed and set them alongside the roulettes. He lay his thick leather belt next to the dirks, and shrugged out of his leather gilet and stood in his stockinged feet, breeches and shirt. He ran a hand through his wiry hair thinking he wanted, needed a bath.

He took a bath, throughout which the cat had kept him company sitting tidily on a chair and watching benevolently. He had washed his hair, combed and oiled his beard and hair, dressed in clean clothes. After, Gimli went back down to the kitchen and filled a pewter tankard with fine ale from the cask in the cellar and settled down with pipe, ale and cat, to wait for his errant friends.

But nothing felt right.

Patience of stone, he reminded himself and puffed on his pipe, which had gone out. He noticed Frodo's tinderbox on the little table next to him. Trying hard not to dislodge Azaghâl, who was curled up comfortably in his lap and purring like a small Oliphant, Gimli fumbled trying to reach the tinderbox. As he did, his fingers brushed against a piece of paper which fluttered to the carpet. Perversely Azaghâl jumped down from his lap and pounced upon the note.

At first he was merely annoyed at having untidied something and then he frowned, intrigued. It was his writing on the note. He leaned down and scooped up Azaghâl and the note and settled down to read it.

And then pushed himself to his feet, careless of Azaghâl's irritated whine, and stomped to the hallway, shoved his feet into his boots, pulled on his jacket and flung open the door.

0o0o

Elladan glanced up at the mountains ahead them, seeing the sunlight on snow. They had been walking at an interminably slow pace for hours along the Great Road, skirting the White Mountains. Far ahead Elladan could see the Beacon Hills of Gondor rising up, Halifirien, Calanhad, snowy-headed Min-rimmon and Erelas. Nardol rose, rocky and barren from the green and wooded slopes of the forest. Its ruined walls like broken teeth.

'That is one of the oldest of Gondor's beacons,' observed Erestor and Elladan could not help but smile at the sound of his mentor's voice, and then realised that he had instinctively leaned towards Erestor. Smiling at himself, Elladan inclined his head in agreement.

'I remember how we came along this very road, with the beacons blazing above us. Armies of the Last Alliance marched from North and South and West,' Erestor continued as if he were talking about the weather. He waved the flamboyant blue velvet sleeve of his now mud-spattered coat. There were marks on the lush velvet where Niphredil, Erestor's grumpy horse, had slobbered against him. 'That Isildur was such an idiot. Even then he was far more concerned with his own power and glory.' At that moment, as if in agreement, Niphredil farted loudly and Erestor laughed and patted the beast affectionately. Elladan laughed too for he had always found Erestor exhilarating, an excitement fluttering in his belly at the other's closeness.

Glorfindel had insisted to Elrohir that they give the horses some ease and walk for some of the way after they had pelted over the Eastfold and into Anorien, and even though he agreed, Elrohir seethed under the restraint. His restlessness made Barakhir dance and snap at Baraghur. Even Erestor and his tall, rangy horse kept his distance, only Arwen's grey palfrey clattered after him seemingly immune to either rider or steed's frustration. Her quiet conversation, even one-sided as it was, seemed to soothe him.

Elladan glanced at Elrohir, who shook his head apologetically. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'I cannot bear it. Something is happening and I do not know what it is, but I fear that Legolas is in mortal danger.'

Glorfindel turned in his saddle and inclined his head. 'I feel we may quicken the pace now,' he said, looking at Elrohir. 'I too fear something is amiss and would hasten our journey.'

Instantly, Elrohir gathered up his reins and sent Barakhir flying. The horse leapt away like a bird set free and the mud spattered up from his flying hooves.

Elladan looked at Glorfindel and shook his head in a mute apology and let Baraghur follow. He heard the pounding of hooves close behind and saw Erestor flash a toothy grin at him as his long-legged best tore past Elladan, shaking its head like it was fighting for the bit and bucking as it went. Erestor laughed, sitting easily and yelled with delight. Elladan heard Glorfindel cursing but he too followed.

They would reach the White City in two or three days time, he thought.

0o0o0o


	32. Chapter 32 Elessar

Thank you to LayneWolf, Anon, chasingbluefish, Nelyafinwe, fadesintothewest, Nash, Spiced Wine, samui, paradis, Annika, mcapps, Naledi, Gabriel, Pame, Freddie, Raider-K, Nako, earthdragon, jmkk, firerosedreamer, etc for reviews, encouragement and some great ideas which have got us to this point! And to Narya- who gave me the idea of Gimli hearing the song of stone which isn't in this chapterJ

*zigûr- Wizard

Aglar-Zigûrun- Sauron: Zigûrun= _The_ Wizard; Aglar= bright. This is what the Nazgûl call Sauron. They would, in my view, have spoken Adûnaic and may also have called Sauron Annatar, Bringer of Gifts because at the time he made the Rings that was his epithet[SH1] .

Khamûl is the name of the Nazgûl Ring.

Narya, in case you've forgotten, is Gandalf's ring.

*The Elf trapped by Angu (one of the Nine)in Phellanthir is Rhawion. This happened in Through a Glass when Legolas and Rhawion found themselves in Phellanthir and hunted by a Nazgûl. Rhawion was killed but his fëa was captured by the Nazgûl and devoured. Until then, Sauron had forbidden the Nazgûl to eat any part of an Elf though they were permitted the flesh and souls of Men.

This is the first half of what was originally one chapter but was going on too long- then next chapter is almost finished and will get back to Legolas, I promise. Sorry to all Aragorn fans in advance.

Especially for mcapps- speedy recovery.

 **Chapter 32: Elessar**

Bearos left Faramir and scuttled straight back to the King, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hands. He could hardly contain his glee for Faramir had signed the papers without even reading what Bearos had written; not quite a confession, for it was too soon and the Usurper and his Great Council would be even more suspicious, but enough there to fuel the fire and to make it ever more difficult for the Usurper to refuse to take action against Faramir's apparent guilt.

Bearos' feet slipped on the stone path and his jaw dropped, teeth clacked for he was not concentrating now - too pleased with himself to care. But he had to work fast; Narya was coming. He felt her approach. She was in the city. The edge of her fire was bright and she would reveal him, thrust him from the shadows when he was not yet ready. And he needed all his Power to bend the Usurper's will, to force him to act against his own nature.

Not yet ready. No. Not yetnotyetnotyet….he muttered to himself. He needed more time. More time!

At least he had drunk his fill, and had the Elf's sweet blood coursing, pounding through his veins. But he felt the weak heart of this body bursting for this mortal body could not contain the Elf's life-force, the bones disintegrating as fragile as ash. But oh, the Power of the blood! The Power that must be released from devouring an elven soul! He chittered angrily against the vanquished Aglar- Zigûrun who had kept the Brethren starved, weak, fed them only on mortal souls, and decaying flesh. The Lord of Mordor had forbidden them sweet elven-blood, elven-fëa. Because he knew! _HE knew and they did not!_ Bearos' eyes rolled in his head, blood-shot and bulging with fury. Until Angu, the Guardian of Phellanthir, had devoured the Elf* trapped there, **_they had not known_**.

They had not known! Deceiver! _He_ , the Lord of Mordor, had kept the Brethren weak and enslaved so they did HIS will, HIS bidding. His jaw chattered and clacked in anger and he wanted his long fingers round a throat, strangling the breath from a warm, pulsing thing. He wanted the blood spilling over his fingers, bloody meat in his mouth. He gnashed his long teeth in fury against his, the Brethren's erstwhile overlord.

He shook his head and gibbered. But Khamûl beat him back into the semblance of a Man and he hurried through the chambers of the palace. There were some of the stupid Men who thought of themselves as important in this doomed kingdom. Soon it will be destroyed and ground under our heel! he thought gleefully. He needed to just keep this body animated long enough for Khamûl to reach its next host, long enough to bend the Usurper and destroy him!

Composing himself into a seriousness that he did not feel, Bearos nodded to a few lords who were standing, talking, waiting for the business of the day to begin. This smaller council chamber was where the Provision Council met, for there was a shortage of grain still. Inevitable after war when the Pelennor Fields had been lost to farming and still had not recovered. This council was Faramir's idea and normally it was he who led it. One lord beckoned him over, snapped his fingers as if Bearos were a servant and though Bearos dropped his eyes and inclined his head obsequiously, his eyes flashed and he thought how he would like to dig his fingers into the lord's neck and tear out his jugular vein, that pulsed ripe and fat beneath the skin. Suck the blood from the still pulsing vein.

'Bearos, you will know. Is it true?' the Man asked, bending his head so he could not be overheard and it brought the Man close enough that Bearos could rip out his throat with barely a movement.

'Is what true?' Bearos looked up slyly and licking his lips. Let the fool speak it first.

'That Faramir has been arrested of course?'

Now some of the others clustered around Bearos, anxious for news and he forced himself into civility. It was too close now and he had one more task before he could reveal his true nature. And he had worked hard on these old families, been careful which to nurture and incubate, those 'Pilgrims' who felt that the Stewards had been loyal and steadfast whilst the Heirs of Isildur had shivered and hidden in Rivendell, protected by the magic of the Elves. They were his servants if they but knew it and he sniggered to himself and leered. He had opened his hand and the red jewel on his hand flashed and glittered; about them it had grown darker over the weeks he had worked upon them, and if they but knew how to look, they would have seen a snake of black smoke writhing about them, poring its coils over them and they suffocated in a poisonous smoke of unease, of treachery.

'I cannot say,' he murmured now to the gathered lords, and his eyes (that did not appear blood-shot and bulging to those he spoke to,) darted glances into the corners and shadows. He hushed them. 'You never know who is listening.' They glanced at each other distrustfully and wondered which of their listeners might be spies, or report to the King. For they were more used to Denethor, paranoid and mad, than they were Aragorn Elessar.

'It is true,' muttered another of the lords. 'I tried to see Faramir this morning but was told I could not.'

Bearos would not speak. He merely clutched the sheaf of papers to his chest and looked at them pointedly. The serpent coiled about them, the air grew heavy and thick and their faces grew ugly with discontent.

'You are loyal to the King,' grumbled one.

'I am loyal to Gondor,' Bearos retaliated quickly, bowed and left.

He conjured fear and sent it threading with malicious glee through the assembly, the serpent hissed and wound between them and the hairs on their necks stiffened with fear and horror and they thought it was what they had heard. A low murmur of outrage and fear bubbled. The Usurper, Elessar, would not last long, thought Bearos. He leaned against the wall of the passageway and laughed silently so his shoulders shook with venomous delight. The Ring upon his finger glowed, warmed him and coiled about his hand in pleasure.

He let his face slip for just a moment and it was such a relief not to have to hold it all, keep the jaw from dropping and teeth from clacking, keep the eyes from rolling back. For this body, Bearos, was almost a corpse and Khamûl, strong with blood, kept forcing the heart to beat, to pound blood through the cold veins, the muscles moving so it might feed…

He sniggered and chuckled and gibbered, shuffling along the passages, his limbs loose and face slipping. As he neared the King's study however, he thought he could hear the higher-pitched bubbling voice of the Halflings who had destroyed Ash Nazg and he ground his teeth in fury at their closeness to the Usurper. He thought he had done enough to prevent the Halflings from gaining access to Elessar. Bearos' own men were scattered throughout the Tower Guard and there were those posted about the citadel even now, preventing access to the King or Steward. There were not many but they were strategically placed, and violent.

And here was one, guarding this unimportant and small vestibule outside the King's study where there were rich and heavy cloaks hung in case Elessar wanted to go outside into the garden. The sentry was lounging against the wall, not watching the door but staring out of the narrow window.

'You neglect your duties, guard,' said Bearos softly and the guard snapped his head round, sword already half drawn. 'I will not speak of it,' Bearos said but his voice was not kind and the guard licked his lips nervously. Then Bearos smiled slightly for it was one who had helped him release Kustîg, greedy and cruel, like Tyresis. Easy to subdue. Denethor had chosen such Men for his Tower Guard. The guard - his name was Talienor - relaxed, let his sword slide back into the sheath.

'My lord Bearos.' The Man bowed. He knew where the gold came from. 'The King has someone with him, my lord.'

Bearos cursed. 'Who?' Not those Halflings. Or worse, the Dwarf or Zigûr! If so, he would have to flee! He could not face Narya!

'With Hirluin of Pinnath Gelin,' answered the guard.

Bearos hissed; Hirluin was resolute and strong, difficult to influence, hard to win. In fact - Bearos twisted the ring on his finger irritably - Hirluin had taken the place of that old bastard Herion; how the old Man had struggled and fought! Bearos bared his teeth remembering: he had had to twist his long fingers about Herion's throat, pressing just so on the windpipe so he would leave no bruise. The blood had been thick and heavy, sticky with age. Not like the sweet swift pulsing river of Elf-blood.

The Elf. Bearos clacked his teeth. He had to make haste.

So, he knocked briefly and entered humbly, forcing his visage into an expression that was sorrowful and disappointed. Hirluin was seated in one of the comfortable chairs next to the hearth although in the summer warmth no fire was lit. Elessar was in the chair opposite and Bearos felt a flare of jealousy; the King never invited him to sit in such comfort. _Usurper,_ Khamûl hissed.

Nevertheless, he bowed, clutching the sheaf of papers to his chest. 'Your majesty,' he said, waiting, and Khamûl slid tendrils towards the Usurper and whispered to him; _Here is Bearos, your faithful servant, who does your bidding alone and is completely yours. Not like this Hirluin, too much his own man._

Elessar blinked and glanced quickly at Hirluin and then his sharp eyes darted back to Bearos as if he knew Khamûl spoke. Khamûl became a dark serpent of shadow easing from the Ring, sliding over the floor and coiling about the Usurper, who froze. As if he knew…

 _Too much,_ Bearos cursed himself. _The Usurper is no fool! He has travelled in the company of Ash Nazg! Be more cautious,_ he reminded himself and dipped his eyes humbly. Elessar was not one of these foolish Men who could be easily beguiled and Bearos had worked too hard, insinuating himself into the Usurper's confidence to lose now. Softly, he told himself, reminded Khamûl.

Bearos bowed to Hirluin who smiled tightly and nodded courteously. Indeed, Bearos could never fault this Lord for he was as courteous as Bearos could wish; unlike his spiteful predecessor. And whilst he bowed, softly, softly, the Khamûl's serpent shadow slowed, silently slithered over the Usurper's feet, for he would sense Khamûl if they were not careful.

'I have done as you asked, your majesty,' Bearos said as if he were uncomfortable with the King's request, though it had been Bearos who had planted it in the first place. 'I have…' He shook his head as if he wished he did not have to speak. 'I have now the …confession of the Lord Faramir.' He sighed and looked up heavily as if weighed by his responsibility but let Khamûl slide about the King, to wind about him invisibly.

'Confession?' Hirluin said quickly, his fingers clenched the carved arms of his chair. He looked at the King. 'It is true then, my lord? You have…Faramir is under arrest? I did not believe it when I heard.'

Elessar bowed his head and rested his brow against his hand in distress. 'It is true, And my heart breaks for it.' Khamûl wound his scales about the King's chair, settled over his shoulders so he bowed slightly under the weight of the coils of malice.

'The evidence, my lords,' Bearos said regretfully, as if he were not gleefully watching Khamûl insinuating himself around the King, 'is indisputable.' He paused dramatically and spread his hands as he had seen the King do himself and so had adopted and reflected back the Usurper's own gestures to himself. _Trust me,_ Khamûl whispered in the heart of Elessar, _Bearos is your servant, your loyal man._

Elessar blinked slowly and leaned back in his chair and Bearos knew he had once more slipped beneath this Northman's watchfulness. Khamûl was coiled now about the Usurper's shoulders, slithered around his neck.

Hirluin's eyes flicked from the King to Bearos and Bearos was amused at how _ignorant_ both Men were of the sorcery being worked right before them!

'My lord?' Hirluin spoke in a low concerned voice. 'Of what is Faramir accused? I cannot believe that he is guilty of anything except excessive _loyalty_ and _humility!_ ' His hand rested upon the arm of his chair as if he needed support.

Bearos glanced at the King as if seeking permission but Elessar still hid his eyes as if he might hide from Hirluin's accusing gaze, thought Bearos pleased. It made the King look guilty.

'He is accused of …abducting Legolas Thranduillion,' Bearos said, as if with difficulty, 'for I refuse to believe that our elven friend is dead.' He bowed his head like the King had, but only for a moment and to hide his own deep amusement. His pleasure in his own performance tingled delightfully and he saw that Khamûl was now coiled around the Usurper's head, pressing cold scales close, pressing against the King's head so the Man frowned and squeezed his eyes shut.

'What? What is this?' Hirluin demanded, rising to his feet. 'You say that Faramir has abducted Legolas? I do not believe you!' He strode towards Bearos who forced himself to hold still and not to strike the Man down, sear all thoughts and reduce him to the hunk of bloody meat that Maltök and Tyresis had become. But he did not allow himself to be distracted from the real work, the subjugation of the Usurper. It had taken him weeks to reach this point! He had spent night after night working on the King, wheedling his way into confidences, making himself indispensable so the Usurper would not suspect, would not erect defences around himself as he had Ash Nazg, for Bearos, Khamûl, knew that if Elessar was on his guard, they would not break through and all this work would be lost.

'My lord, it distresses me as much as anyone, if not more,' Bearos heard himself protest as if he stood a long way away. He drew on the Power of the Brethren and wrapped it about Elessar. 'I love the Steward, have sworn myself to serve him after only the King himself. But I cannot deny what is true!' Bearos slowly turned to the King, as if appealing to him. He held aloft the sheaf of papers that was the fabricated confession he had written himself and persuaded Faramir to sign. He forced his face to look disappointed, saddened but it was only for Hirluin's benefit for the King's head was still bowed, heavy under the pressure and weight of the serpent that coiled about his head, squeezing, pressing relentlessly.

But Hirluin was incredulous at the claims Bearos was making, and he extended his hand as if to beseech the King. 'I share your distress, my lord, that Legolas has disappeared, but surely you do not believe that Faramir has anything to do with this?'

'I…I do not wish for any of this,' the King replied, and he seemed to struggle. He slowly lifted his hand to his head and for a moment, Bearos thought he had succeeded on throwing Khamûl off and he looked up at Hirluin but there were lines about his eyes and his skin looked almost grey. 'I only want for Legolas to be returned unharmed.' He hesitated for a moment and swayed a little. Then he seemed to recover himself and spoke more strongly. 'But I cannot ignore these discoveries of Beregond's men, Hirluin. Look for yourself and tell me what to believe I beg you…' He thrust the silver button towards the other Man but his face was turned downwards, looking away and Bearos knew that he was slowly, slowly succumbing to Khamûl's relentless squeeze. 'You recognise this? I see that you do. It was found in the wilds between the city wall and the Hallows. What was Faramir doing there, I ask you? Tell me something different from what I already think, what I am told.' Aragorn's face was anguished and he looked towards Hirluin desperate for an alternative.

Bearos watched each Man attentively. Hirluin took the silver button and glanced at Aragorn first and then Bearos. '

'It is true that this is the sigil of the Stewards, my lord, but _anyone_ could have dropped it so it would be found. _Anyone_ could implicate Faramir this way if they wished!' He dropped the button back on the table. 'Is _this_ all you have to hold him? Then he should be released and restored to his rank.' Hirluin's eyes were hard and he looked again at Bearos but coldly now as if he guessed the author of this little fabrication.

'And what of the rest?' demanded Bearos, and as he spoke, the serpent invisibly coiled and rose up above the Usurper and he froze in a silent struggle, unseen by all but Bearos for he knew that Khamûl was feeding off the life-blood of the Elf, draining Bearos too of energy so he had to concentrate on keeping his semblance to a Man, drawing on the fiery filament link between himself and the Brethren who were yet incomplete and insubstantial.

'A knife was thrown at the Lord Legolas some days ago, my lord Hirluin. It was Faramir's knife,' Bearos continued. 'The Steward was in the Royal Mews at the time of Legolas' disappearance and yet he denied any knowledge of this at first. But now he has changed his story and confesses that he did indeed see him in the mews.' Bearos slapped the papers onto the table before the two Men and when Elessar gave a groan of despair, it sounded not like the battle he was having with Khamûl, but a reaction to the treason of his Steward.

'There are those too who say that he has always been jealous of Lord Legolas and wished him harm. That he saw how close Lord Legolas was with the Lady of Rohan, Eowyn who is Faramir's betrothed . And because of that deep friendship, Faramir thought he had a rival and wished him gone. Here are the statements of witnesses.' Bearos bowed his head and pretended to be upset but he grinned at the memory of how he had terrified the valet into writing that Faramir had cried out in his sleep how he hated Legolas and how he had seen him grind his teeth when he saw the Elf with the Lady Eowyn. And there were more, from the bitter ladies who had fancied themselves rejected by such an eligible prospect. But Bearos' favourite was a forged piece from Herion. He almost squeezed himself with delight but instead he cried out in distress, 'Oh my lord! It was for the love of the lady Eowyn that he did this terrible thing. It was fear that she might look with more favour upon Lord Legolas than upon Faramir, her betrothed. If he would but tell us where Legolas was at least he might redeem himself! At least we might find Lord Legolas before he dies!'

Hirluin, Bearos noticed with malicious delight, was struck dumb. He gaped like a caught fish and could not find the words to protest for it was so convincing! Who had not noticed at the coronation feast how miserably the Steward watched Eowyn hanging upon Legolas' arm, how they had laughed together and he poured her wine? Bearos knew he had won when Hirluin sat heavily in the chair and did not look at him. And he saw too how the King's eyes were fixed upon him, how his mouth was frozen in a rictus, unable to speak for Khamûl had filled his mouth now, crammed his coils into the mouth, the throat, his gullet and he silently choked. Elessar knew now what was happening to him, but could not speak to save himself.

Much like Faramir! Bearos stifled a chuckle at the comparison.

'It is true that anyone could have dropped a mere button, my lord,' Bearos said, cajoling now. He slid towards Hirluin's chair and looked down at the Man with compassion, moved his arm along the back of it like a snake. For once Elessar was subjugated, he would attend to Hirluin. 'Someone wanting to cast suspicion upon Faramir perhaps?' he continued as if this were of any consequence. 'But there is no one else we suspect. There is no one else who wished Legolas harm. And this evidence, my lord, was found by none other than Beregond of the Tower Guard in whom we all trust,' Bearos continued sadly. 'It is Thadion, who has been the ostler here for more years than either you or I have walked the earth and who first set Faramir upon a horse, who swears the Steward accosted him at precisely the time the Lord Legolas was in the Mews and disappeared. And it was I who saw Faramir in the courtyard with his knife drawn, the very knife that was thrown at the Lord Legolas only days before.' Bearos pulled back as if uncomfortable. 'Forgive me my passion, lords. But I am …' He swallowed. 'I am as hurt and wounded by this betrayal as you for I did swear fealty to the Steward. I love the Man. I have served and would serve him even now and it is hard to bring this to you. And yet I love my King more. And my country above all.'

And now, thought Bearos, for the final piece. His triumph!

He turned to the King who stared at him in silent horror, incapable of speech or movement for Khamûl had his limbs pinned by the heavy, endless coils that wrapped about the Man, his head, his neck, chest, pinned his arms and legs, immobilized his feet. Bearos knelt before him, bowed his head. 'And now I have no choice, my lord, but to throw myself upon your mercy for I have to confess, my lord, my King. Though unwittingly, I did betray you and perhaps it is my action that led Faramir to the means of his great treason, though the motive was already there as I have shown.'

'How…?' Elessar forced the words out and then. Stiffly, rose to his feet as if he were being compelled- which he was, Bearos sneered to himself. The Usurper took a stilted step towards Bearos who made himself quail as if afraid. He noticed from the corner of his eye that Hirluin shifted uncomfortably and Bearos smiled to himself; Elessar did indeed look a tyrant.

'I have not realised until now how evil was my deed but I swear, my lord, I did not understand until now.' Bearos calculated that now would be the time to lift his head and meet the King's grey eyes that were full of confusion and anger and slow recognition of what was being done to him. 'It was I whom you charged to negotiate with the Easterling, Kustîg. It was I you entrusted with speaking with him…And I confess now, my lord that Kustîg desired to speak with the Steward. He insisted that he would tell Faramir things of which he would not speak to me, a mere humble merchant. And so I bid Faramir visit the Man and in that meeting, Faramir did tell him of an artefact that had been discovered in the Tower of the Moon.'

Elessar gasped and lifted his hand stiffly, haltingly. Bearos winced most convincingly and cringed as if he believed that the King would strike him but he could see how the King was in reality, fighting it.

'I do most firmly believe that it was Kustîg who somehow bewitched our Steward and corrupted him. I beg you, lord. Do not pronounce the punishment for treason upon our dear Steward for he has served Gondor well and I do believe he is but sick or struck by sorcery.' Bearos shuffled forwards on his knees like he was supplicating a vengeful king.

Elessar spoke slowly, his voice grating as Khamûl forced out the words. 'Faramir spoke with Kustîg?'

'Yes, my lord. And the very next evening Kustîg was gone with the artefact from Minas Morgul. We know he could not have escaped without help, the sort of help that only comes from the Tower Guard.'

Elessar slowly, jerkily stepped away to the window of the study. He stared out, hands behind his back but Bearos could see how Hirluin noted that the King's fingers were squeezed tightly about each other as if he had to stop himself from doing something. The King bent his head and Bearos saw how the shadow-serpent coiled about his neck, his head, so he was blinded. Its dry scales slithered over the Usurper. Not long now. That fight was almost done and though it was invisible, Bearos had to admire the Usurper's resilience, his defence against Khamûl and the Brethren in this silent struggle for mastery.

'My lord,' Bearos bowed once more. 'Faramir said that if you would release him now he would depart for Ithilien and he will swear allegiance to you.'

Elessar turned towards Bearos and before Bearos could throw a thought his way, before Khamûl could open the shadow-serpent jaws and engulf the Usurper, the King made one last stand and his hand suddenly reached for the elvish jewel about his neck as if it were a lifeline. Bearos roared inside but shut his mouth tightly. He heard Khamûl's shriek like nails on a board but only he. Khamûl writhed his thick black body and struck at the Usurper. But there was a blaze of light and the Evenstar was like a blade thrusting into the serpent's body. It thrashed in agony, struck and struck again at the King's hand but he clung to the Evenstar and would not let it go.

There was only one thing he could do; Bearos threw himself at Elessar, clutching at his knees and in doing so, dug his taloned nails into the nerves of the King's hand. Instinctively, Elessar let go of the Evenstar and in that moment, Khamûl struck against the elvish blade-light. The thick black snake twisted itself about Elessar's hips and waist, its tail snapped about his hands and bound them to his sides so he could not reach again for the pendant. The serpent reared up to coil about his neck and then…it was swallowing him, its jaw gaped and its mouth engulfed Elessar. For a moment, the King stared at Bearos in bewilderment and then Bearos could see his fëa struggling, his thoughts swirling and scattering in the pall of smoke. But Khamûl was too strong and although the Man struggled, he slowly sank and sank and sank beneath the black tide.

Bearos thought in relief that it had taken him a long time to suffocate the Usurper's independent thoughts. Now he would bind him so he could never again reach for that cursed pendant. He would take it from Elessar and destroy it.

'What say you, majesty?' he asked slyly as if nothing had happened. 'Will you release Faramir if he swears allegiance to you?'

'No.' Elessar turned slowly towards Bearos. He blinked heavily like he was trying to stay awake but the serpent was filling him, swelling his belly, pressing upon his brain, filling his mouth with words that were not his own. 'He would go free and leave Legolas imprisoned? Or… or worse. No. I would not release him until I have an answer.'

Bearos bowed humbly, so humbly. A snigger escaped him that he muffled quickly and made it a sob.

'Take him to the Dungeons and force him to tell where he has Legolas,' the King said slowly.

Hirluin put his hand over his mouth. 'Majesty!' he cried. 'Have mercy on him. Maybe he is indeed bespelled!' He knelt before the King just as Bearos, but Elessar's eyes were blank and he did not even look at the two Men before him.

'Summon Beregond,' Elessar commanded ponderously. 'Have Faramir taken to the dungeons as I have commanded.'

Bearos had him completely now and he leapt to his feet. 'Talienor!' he shouted. 'Fetch Beregond. The King has instructions for him.'

Hirluin fell back into his chair a look of frozen horror on his face while Bearos stood before Elessar and took hold of the chain that held the elven token. He lifted it from the King's neck and carefully, without touching the jewel itself, put it in a drawer of his desk and then slowly came back to stand before the King.

'My lord, this must be exhausting you. Sit down. Rest a moment while I send for the council to hear your will.'

Bearos summoned the fat little clerk, Aradhel and told him the King wished the Council to assemble as quickly as possible.

Aradhel glanced towards the King. 'Majesty, your friends are outside waiting. The lords Perianath. Shall I let them in while we wait for the council to assemble?'

Bearos was furious and turned suddenly upon the clerk, eyes blazing with wrath. 'Begone!' he hissed. 'The King has spoken.'

Aradhel looked at Bearos with pure dislike and Bearos decided then that he would be the next one to be rid of. 'Forgive me, Bearos,' Aradhel said, not even using the title Bearos deserved for his place on the council. 'But I do as the King bids me.' He turned back to the King and came forwards a few steps. His eyes were concerned, solicitous. 'Majesty, what is _your_ will?'

Bearos narrowed his eyes and pushed the black serpent further into Elessar's body, filled him so there was no room for anything else.

'Do as Bearos says. Do all that he says.' His voice was hard and cold. Like flint.

Bearos smiled and bowed to the clerk slyly. 'Summon the Council. Do it now.'

Aradhel stared at Bearos for a moment, dismayed. Then he folded his fat little hands and bowed and left.

Fat little hands, thought Bearos. He would be tender and juicy. His eyes rolled in his skull and his jaw clacked for a moment. But as he turned back to the Usurper, his eye caught Hirluin's who looked at him in horror.

Hell's teeth. The lord had seen him slip! Hirluin had shrunk back into his chair, appalled but Bearos had his face under control now and made himself look meek, innocent so Hirluin blinked as if he doubted himself.

At that moment, Beregond arrived breathless and anxious at the same time that Aradhel left. Bearos saw them exchange a glance but when Beregond heard the King order that Faramir be taken to the dungeons and imprisoned, he bowed his head in sorrow.

'I beg you ask another to do this duty, majesty. I cannot,' he said and Elessar looked at him with blank eyes and nodded curtly.

'Then you are relieved of your duties, Beregond, and are no longer of the Tower. Give your keys to this man,' he indicated Talienor. 'Surrender all your office and badges of office. You can no longer dwell in the citadel and from now you are banished from the upper levels. You may come no further than the fourth.' Talienor's eyes were wide and a little frightened but Bearos glared at him.

Beregond stared for a moment and then pulled his badge from his surcoat, looked at it and put it carefully on the table. The baton that represented his status he laid reverently beside it. 'If that is your will, majesty.' He turned with dignity and strode from the palace.

Bearos could hardly contain his delight. Hirluin's face was devastated, horrified but Bearos could have cut a caper for the glee that bubbled and surged through him.

But he did none of this. Instead he composed a sober face and made it look concerned as Hirluin. 'My lords, the council will be arriving any moment. We should take our seats.' He turned back to Talienor. 'Post guards on the doors. Do not let _anyone_ pass. We discuss a matter of treason and it will be treason should anyone break the King's orders. Send away all petitioners and those seeking audience with the King. He is indisposed and will be in Great Council for the rest of the day.'

He wanted those Halflings gone, and entry forbidden to the Zigûr should he arrive.

The great doors swung open and the lords and noble families of Minas Tirith began to file in, casting worried looks at each other but daring not to speak. It had been the same with Denethor by the end; they were used to it.

o0o0o


	33. Chapter 33 Ólorin

There are points in this story that refer to Through a Glass Darkly, which tells the story of the first Mirror found by Glorfindel and Erestor in Phellanthir. Glorfindel's presence brought a Balrog to the Glass in Phellanthir as it is a gateway to the Dark. Legolas' presence/blood and Bearos/Khamûl, in case you hadn't realised it, brought the Nazgûl. In Through a Glass, they find a Nazgûl has killed and captured an elven fëa and is consuming it, which Sauron has forbidden as it would make them too strong, too powerful and able to even defy him.

Khamûl is the Ring. In my head canon, the original Men who were given the Rings imbued their Rings with their history, experience, but the Rings devoured them. And so, it is the Rings which are truly the Nazgûl, the Brethren. To me, that makes far more sense than the wraiths having personalities. I know that is not Tolkien's canon but I like this -it works for this fic.

Aragorn: OK- sorry, Aragorn fans. He really is deeply under the influence of Khamûl. So, he isn't in control of his actions.

Khamûl the Easterling's names:

dulgî- the black

Saphad- understanding/wise. Khamûl is considered wise amongst the Brethren.

Chapter 32: Ólorin

The Zigûr was here, Bearos could feel the crackle of power and snap of energy as he approached. Narya blazed like a beacon over the city if only the fools could see it! Her power was a fiery glow moving closer, closer towards the citadel, the Hallows.

Bearos hurried then, slipped away from the council where they bickered and raged over what to do about the stupid, stupid Steward. A snigger forced its way out of his chest through his mouth: the evidence he had planted against Faramir was so flimsy! Oh, it had not been easy to break the will of the Usurper, a Man who had spent months in the company of Ash Nazg. It had taken spells and sorcery that Bearos, Khamûl had wound so tightly about the King that he could not escape. Sorcery coiled about him, over him, suffocated him and no one even knew!

The Zigûr would know of course. But it did not matter now. And the Khazâd and the evil, malicious Halflings. They were everywhere with their sharp beady eyes and their poking fingers. They had always suspected Bearos, he thought, they had never trusted him. The Elf had not trusted him either.

But he was right not to!

Oh, how clever he had been! Trapping the Elf with his cunning. Twisting his way around the Usurper and the Steward. He had tricked Elessar so that he no longer trusted anyone.

But it hardly mattered now. He was ready. The city was already ripped apart. Soon it would explode with blood. The movement of the earth ticked away until Ravéyön arrived. Not long. Not long! His shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

Sliding out of the palace, he cast a net of concealment over himself, slipped along the narrow alleyways of the city towards the catacombs. A thin smile twisted over Bearos' loose and shifting features, long teeth bared. He flexed his hands…his hands…more like claws now. He threw back his head exaggeratedly and laughed as loudly as he could, retching out the laugh, grimacing a horrid parody of humour.

He was hungry. Hungry! But he would soon have blood enough to keep this shell of a body going for longer, until Ravéyön was here. He needed to feed the Elf too, to keep him alive, to keep his blood rich and nutritious.

The darkness slipped over him, around him, viscous, caressing. Elemental. Like the Sea. Khamûl pulsed on his finger, coiled and slithered about his hand, his arm, pushed his sinews and bones to stretch, joints to crack. His fingers lengthened, his hands stretched, elongated. And he dropped to all fours and gathered himself, leaping into the dark.

Ahead of him there was fresh blood and still living flesh. He had chased and dragged something in here three nights ago. Hunting was plentiful in the narrow alleys and ruins. He had gnashed his teeth and with the vigour of the beast he was, pounced upon his prey and cracked his head against the stone and then hoisted the Man over his shoulder and ran, skulked through the sleeping city into the Hallows where he had gnawed with his powerful jaws on a leg, crunched with his long teeth on a hand, an arm, chewed and spat out the bones.

Bearos had taken the rest of the leg to the Elf, ungrateful though he was. The Man had crawled away from where Bearos left him but it did not take Bearos long to find him for his breathing was loud and raspy and he had crawled slowly, whimpering. His face was swollen and blood congealed in the three gashes in his cheek.

'I have kept you alive to keep you fresh.' Bearos peered down at the terrified Man. 'But no need now.' A cruel grin split his blood-spattered face. Then he gnashed again at the face because it reminded him of Tyresis whom he had hated. Not Maltök who he merely despised. He ignored the screaming until it stopped.

Gnash gnash grind chew spit out the bones for later.

He dragged the bloody body by its one remaining foot, bumping it and bashing it into the stone plinths and tombs of Kings and Stewards. He hefted it over one of the tombs for a rest and looked down at the silent, stone face of the effigy of Narmacil, King of Gondor he supposed. There was a weak groan from the body so he kicked it hard and bashed its face against the stone face of Narmacil. It did not move or breathe or groan again.

The cell was deep in the belly of the earth, hidden. The slab of iron that covered the iron grille was cunningly wrought. Oh, so cunning! Bearos ran his hand over the seamless door lovingly, proudly. It looked just like the stone wall. They will never find it! he thought hysterically. Not without Khamûl! When Beregond's posse had searched the Hallows with their crypts and tombs, a small number of guards had even walked right past the gate, never seeing a thing. They didn't hear the weak cry of the Elf in his despair. Bearos hugged himself gleefully and dropped the corpse on the stone floor, pressed himself against the slab of iron; the Elf was peaceful, heartbeat strong. Bearos imagined the blood gliding through his veins, his heart pulsing, pumping strongly.

'Su-pper,' he shouted loudly in a sing-song voice that he knew would terrify the Elf.

There was a stifled sob on the other side of the door that amused him. He heard the Elf shifting and moving as far from the door as possible. Bearos opened his mouth, breathed in, tasted the Elf's fear on his tongue. Clacking his teeth because he knew it frightened the Elf, he swung open the heavy door.

Light gleamed softly from the Glass and illuminated the Elf who was cowering on the floor in fear. Bearos loved that. He breathed in deeply: fear was like a rich frankincense, like the heady erotic scent of sex when long ago in his previous life the long-lidded girls shrank away from Khamûl Dulgî, Khamûl Saphâd, the Feared. Khamûl. Red fluttered round the edges of his vision, the dry heat of the desert, heat, beneath him the beat of hooves, the shring of the sword from the sheath and blood. Blood. Blood.

Bearos hoped the Elf would try to escape again, he liked the feel of his strength and power beneath him as they had wrestled. It reminded him of sex. But the Elf just watched in terror, weakly. The Elf's light was fainter than it had been when first he was brought here. The bright green-gold was thin.

Dumping the still warm carcass in the middle of the cell, Bearos ripped open the abdomen and reached into the cavity. The liver was warm and slimy. Grasping it firmly, he tore it from the cavity and ripped and gnawed and tore it into tiny pieces ready to feed the Elf, whose small cries of distress inflamed Bearos, gave him a delicious erection which he enjoyed, stroking it every now and again in between tearing the liver, his fingers bloody and covered in viscous fluids. He licked his fingers, then sucked each one noisily.

The Elf fought less too and it was easier, if disappointing, that it was so easy to wrestle him to the ground and straddle him, sitting on his chest, Bearos' long taloned feet gripping his arms so he could not move. And Bearos' scrotum, his stiff erection pressed against the pounding heart beneath him. Delectably. Erotically. So he rubbed himself on the flat and hard belly, on the strong chest while the Elf struggled against Bearos and tried to turn his head away. Oh, and how Bearos enjoyed that. He forced tiny gobbets of liver into the Elf's mouth When the Elf tried to turn away, Bearos held his chin fast and squeezed, digging his nails into the soft mouth so he had to open it.

'Liver is good for you. Plenty of iron for the blood. Makes you strong.' He clacked his teeth in the Elf's face. He could smell the fear. Taste it. He rubbed his own stiff cock again against the Elf's chest and belly, knowing that terrified him even more. He let his bloody, streaming jaw hang down slackly and his long red tongue lolled out, licked the liver's fluids and blood from the Elf's face. Letting go of all semblance of humanity, he let his teeth show, long and sharp. His eyes bulged and stared madly. The Elf watched him with frightened eyes and spoke, pleaded, perhaps begged, but Bearos no longer heard the words. He did not care anyway.

After he had fed him, Bearos had to shackle and bind the Elf and pulled on the chains so that the Elf was slowly lifted and hung again before the Glass. There was one single moan of agony, a piteous cry that inflamed Bearos. He loved to see the Elf hanging like this, vulnerable, unprotected. He did not need a knife now either and he stood with his face close to the Elf's groin; the skin was thin and soft here, the pulse strong and blood thick. Bearos' fingers, long and clawed, searched for the delectable pulse of blood and pierced the softest skin with his talons. Blood beaded like perfect jewels and he licked it from the warm skin, sucked at the wound. He lifted his head to see the Glass was malleable, grey silk, and the faces of his Brethren were there, greedy, gathered round and pressing through the Glass. He selected various sites on the Elf's body and sliced into the Elf's body. The Brethren appeared in the Mirror and the Glass undulated and closed about the Elf's body. There was the sound of feeding, of the suck of the wet silk Glass against the Elf's bleeding body.

When he had drunk his fill, Bearos, Khamûl, raised his head and glanced up at the Elf's white face: his full lips were parted in ecstasy and only a slit of green showed where his eyes were heavy -lidded, half closed. His body twitched like an orgasm.

Khamûl looked at his Brethren, met their greedy eyes. Their mouths were as bloody as his for they had thinned the Glass, the barrier between worlds. All they needed now was Ravéyön.

Bearos was strong now that he had fed, and the Brethren too. He moved easily. His hair was coarse and thick and his muscles were bunched and powerful. He lowered the Elf enough that his feet just touched the floor and there was a groan of relief. He forced bloody meat from the carcass into the Elf's mouth again. As before, the Elf tried to move his head and clenched his jaw shut but Bearos wrenched his mouth open and shoved in the meat, held long-clawed hands over the Elf's mouth and nose until he gagged and swallowed. It did not need much and Bearos stopped when he became bored of the struggle.

'Your Ravéyön is coming,' he whispered and the Elf went still. 'He is coming for you. This is his dream.' Bearos laughed softly. 'He will be ours. There is no escape. But you will be gone by then…just slipping away under his eyes. Your fëa will feed us. You will be devoured. A day, a night, a day, a night…your last day…' Bearos leaned his cheek against Legolas's thigh and slowly licked blood from his cooling skin.

Bearos stepped back and looked at the scene before him; the Elf's pale body gleamed slightly in the dim light that came from the Glass. The wild colour swirled over his body, stretched in chains, blood streaked his flat hard belly, lean hips, his thighs. His long hair streamed down his back. Khamûl, Bearos nodded, pleased. Perfect.

When he clanged shut the iron grille, Khamûl felt the felt the edges of flame. The Zigûr burned white fire into the air; he was searching for the Elf, for the Glass. He was here, his attention skimming over the green-gold of the Elf. Too close but he moved on, had missed it. But Bearos was so strong, full of blood, of Power. Enough to resist the Zigrûn? Still enough to influence Men, true, but enough to win Ravéyön?

It did not matter. Either way, their plan was delivered. He sniggered and hugged himself with glee. Not long now!

One last thing. To water the doubt that was already planted.

He leaned against the iron grille and murmured, 'My lord Faramir. It is done.' And when he heard the Elf's cry, he knew the Elf had heard as Khamûl had intended. It was not needed, just mischief but it gave him delight at the chaos he would leave. The iron slab ground over the gate and sealed the Elf in his tomb. Then he murmured words of sealing and suffocated the green-gold thread of his Song. 'No one can find you now,' he called softly into the cell and grinned at the despair that seeped from the Elf.

Bearos skulked through the tombs now, his awareness stretched to encompass the eerie underground catacombs and tombs. It was time! Timetimetime to run! Time to grind bones and gnaw flesh. Time to cause fear and terror and panic in the city. Time to kill.

He started running, his feet stretched beneath him, sinews, muscles bunched, blood thundered- Elf's blood. Power, energy, ecstasy surged through him and he lifted his head, and howled in delight. Sniffed the air and smelt the Zigrûn.

The Zigrûn was alone. Narya upon his hand. Narya was alone. Narya, obeying the Zigrûn like a dog. The Brethren could take Narya, force her to her knees and serve them!

One chance to take her! A chance. A slim chance. But oh, the Power! Like Angmar, he mustered Shadows about him. They gathered about him like smoke.

And with Ravéyön, they would break the Glass, shatter it. He could see it now; the rise of the Nazgûl once again, more powerful, splendid in their sable robes, pouring from the shattered Glass to take the city first, then Gondor. And then all of Middle Earth would fall under the iron heel of the Brethren.

Bearos howled, shrieked again in delight and leapt ahead. His claws rattled against the stones that gave way to smooth marble as he thundered through the Tombs of Kings, lifting his muzzle and yowling, yipping, howling gibbering through the dark. I am coming for you, Ólorin! I have feasted on blood! I am strong!

He tore through the tombs, his clawed and prehensile hands grasping the faces of effigies of the Kings and he scrambled and skittered carelessly over them in his haste to reach the Zigrûn. It did not matter what happened now to Bearos. It did not matter as long as he survived long enough to greet Ravéyön as Lord of the Brethren.

0o0o0

Gandalf was standing on the Rath Dínen, and gazing over towards the Hallows. He had been standing there for a very long time, considering. A skein of mist was draped over the rocky outcrop, hiding the cliffs and little valleys like a grey-silk lake or sea. Emerging from the mist, like the still and silent stones of the Barrow Downs, were the tall mausoleums of the Kings and Stewards. But the mist was thickening and becoming a bank of dense fog. It seemed portentous and threatening somehow and the Wizard felt the hairs on his neck and back spike and stiffen.

Something was there, crouching in the belly of the earth. Something skulking and dark, like a black spider in its web. It lurked in the darkness of the tombs, hiding? Was that the Ghoul?

Gandalf leaned on his staff. The Ghoul had only appeared to Legolas and had it been anyone else, it might have raised a question over the truth of it. But Ioralas' body had been drained of blood. And Gandalf had felt an oiliness in the air about the body. If he had not known better he would have thought the Nazgûl had passed. But they were gone, were they not? Into the Void with their master?

His eyes were fixed on the grey mist that seemed to roll and bank more densely so that now the tombs slowly vanished one by one as if they were being consumed. But he was only partly aware of it, for he mused upon the mystery of what had happened to the Mirror: the Nazgûl had guarded it closely. Indeed, the Nazgûl had made sure they kept the Mirror away from Sauron, their overlord. Just as they had guarded the Mirror in Phellanthir.

Gandalf stared unseeing towards the Hallows. He thought of the stories he had heard of the Nazgûl, how they had fed upon the flesh and blood and souls of men. Never of Elves. There had not once been a tale that they had taken the soul of an Elf. It had been one of Sauron's commandments to the Nazgûl. Was that because an Elf's soul would have made them too strong? And they had kept his commandment.

Until Rhawion.

Gandalf had heard the whole story from Glorfindel, how he and Erestor had found the Nazgûl slowly feeding off the fluttering soul of Rhawion, who had been one of Glorfindel's men. A horrid sensation crept through Gandalf then. Not only had they hidden these Mirrors from Sauron, but the Nazgûl had broken Sauron's commandment. They had rebelled against their master.

But just then he caught the edge of something… Hidden. Just below the sounds of the world, beneath the Song, deeper than the sound of the breath in this mortal body… He leaned his head slightly to one side and half closed his eyes, listening, feeling…and slipped beyond the heavy flesh and muscle, bone and blood.

It was the slightest blurring of the Song as if something was hidden deep in the ancient catacombs of the city. Yes, thought Gandalf slowly, there was something there, but muffled, suffocated by sorcery and spells. By the thickening mist…

A fleeting impression of green-gold, a sense of despair.

He frowned and gently sent Narya like a light into those deep, forgotten places…but she skimmed lightly over the surfaces, flashed back at him like she was reflected off glass…

Gandalf paused and bent his attention again. But this time, there was nothing. Not even a lingering thread.

He lifted his head and gazed towards the Hallows, and the mountain that reared above the mist that had begun to cover the rocky outcrop, filled the chasms and little valleys between the Tombs and the city. If he did not know better, he would have sworn that he had sensed Legolas for a moment. But what would he be doing in the Hallows? Surely the Elf would be with Gimli by now? Or if not, with Aragorn or the Hobbits up to some mischief?

He sighed and flexed his hand and stared at it, feeling the familiar sense of dislocation that he always felt when he thought about being in this aging, mortal body. The skin over the gnarled bones and spongy blue veins was freckled with age. How many years had he travailed this earth in this physical flesh? Mist clung to his skin, dampened his hair and he looked up, surprised at how quickly it had rolled towards the Rath Dínen and where he stood. It crept around him now and he could barely see the gateway at the end of the bridge and onto the Hallows. He shivered at the sudden cold and looked into the mist.

There was something. A blurring, a dark shape in the mist. It was there, and then it was gone.

He narrowed his blue eyes, peering into the thickening mist.

There! Something scuttled at great speed over the humps and rocks of the Hallows. The shape coalesced and he saw that it was taller than a Man and its shoulders were wide and hunched over. It disappeared suddenly and then reemerged but much closer. For the briefest moment, it lifted its face and Gandalf saw that its eyes bulged horribly, blood-shot and staring as though unable to blink. Its jaw and muzzle were elongated, wrinkled in a snarling, horrific grimace. Fog rolled over the Hallows once again and it was gone.

And then, echoing through the mist, an eerie cry, his name called in an almost sing-song voice. 'Ólorrrrriin. I am coming - for you.'

Gandalf understood then why Men said their blood ran cold for he could not help but step back, every hair spiked and stiff with horror. Surely this was the Ghoul that Legolas had seen? Certain it was coming for him, Gandalf hefted his staff in one hand and slid Glamdring from its sheath with a sharp ring of steel.

The fog rolled inexorably over the bridge that arced over the chasm. It curled and coiled about him so he could see no further than the few yards immediately around him. Cold damp pressed itself against his skin. He shuddered and moved back: this was no ordinary fog. This was sorcery.

Suddenly a hideous face came out of the gloom at him. Bloody saliva hanging from its snarling, gaping mouth. Bulging, blood-shot eyes. It leapt at him, long, clawed fingers stretching for his face. Swiftly he swept Glamdring in an arc and slashed at the beast. There was a blur of darkness and he felt a searing pain down his right cheek. He pivoted and struck with his staff as hard as possible and slashed again with Glamdring in the other hand. But he struck nothing but air for the thing had already leapt away and disappeared into the fog.

Gandalf stared into the murk, his eyes wide. This was no Orc or troll. This ghoul was something far more evil. Malice rolled through the damp vaporous mist, pressed itself against him, reached into his ears and nostril, he closed his mouth tightly shut but with every breath he took, it choked him.

'Ólorin.' A whisper. The fog was oily and thick and curled around him like smoke.

He spun to face the ghoul. 'You have failed. You destroyed the Master.' It stretched its lips wide in a blood-curdling smile. 'YOU have set us free.'

Gandalf was suddenly afraid. This was greater than he thought.

A swipe of a huge taloned paw slashed at him and he felt a tearing of skin and flesh. Blood scattered into the fog. Spattered the white robes. He swung Glamdring through the fog and the fog seemed to splinter as fiery sparks flew from the blade. Suddenly Glamdring sank into something and a howling snarl erupted from the beast. He leapt aside as the dark blur crashed against him and Gandalf went down with the bunched muscle and sinew and rough fur, skin, muzzle snapping in his face, claws scrabbling at him. The beast clawed at the hand that held Glamdring, smashed his knuckles against stone until nerveless fingers let go and Glamdring clattered away from him. Bloody saliva spattered from the ghoul's jaws and over Gandalf's face. He saw a gleam of yellowish- white as it gnashed its teeth at him and then plunged down, tearing at his throat. He became Ólorin and thrust power from Narya into the beast, and the ghoul was thrown back into the clinging mist.

There was a scrabbling of claws and then, silence.

He rose to his feet and drew his staff to him, focused Narya through the staff and sent white power detonating through the fog, burning it. It would leave him depleted but it was worth the risk.

The mist thinned reluctantly and the bridge slowly emerged, stretching before him and then the chasm appeared, and then slowly, one by one the tombs emerged once more. But the mist did not dissipate, it merely seemed to retreat a little as if waiting for his back to be turned and then it would creep back down into the city.

He watched the fog for a moment, breathing hard and alert, searching for the beast, the ghoul, but there was nothing. He knew it had not retreated. It waited.

He heard it before he saw it. Behind him. A strange snarling that was almost a voice and he turned, staff upraised and Glamdring ready, but it was hurrying away from him. Gandalf sprang after it and it turned its head briefly towards him, a ghastly white face that was no longer human, coarse hair on its clawed hands. It lifted its thin lips in a horrible parody of a smile and long yellow teeth gleamed. And then it was gone with preternatural speed, half scrambling, half leaping, as if it could not quite control its limbs. Away from Gandalf, towards the great archway of the Rath Dínen and into the city.

Gandalf ran as fast as he could, cursing the old bones. He was stronger than his body suggested but the Ghoul was so much faster. He needed help. He needed all of Aragorn's resources and he needed Legolas and Gimli. His white robes were speckled with blood and when he touched his cheek it was wet.

Gandalf rushed into the city, sped past the archway to the Royal Mews and into busy Citadel Square with its tall lime trees and great houses crowding close to the Palace. He scooped up his robes and shucked them over his shoulder and ran. Messengers hurrying up and down the square leapt out of his way for his face was serious and full of wrath. He half registered the relative emptiness of the Citadel Square, the air of suppressed excitement and fear, the scurrying of the messengers and equerries. But he was in too great a hurry to ask anyone for news.

The grey mist was still thin here but still it had blocked out the sun and clouds loured heavily over the city from the East. Gandalf halted suddenly, searching for the Ghoul.

Nothing.

He arrived at the Steward's House, hoping that Faramir would be there or at least one of his advisors who could raise the alarm in the city, and escort Gandalf to the King. Although surprised, he was relieved by the presence of armed guards at the doorway.

'Good!' he called as he strode towards them. 'Send word to Beregond to come to the Palace in all haste! And you,' he turned to one of the guards, 'take me to Faramir. Now.'

'I am sorry Mithrandir. We cannot let you pass,' said one of the guards a little nervously. His eyes darted to his companion's as if for reassurance.

'What do you mean I cannot pass?' he demanded angrily. 'There is an evil presence loose in your city and we need to find it. Now!' But still they did not move. 'I am Mithrandir! The White Wizard.' He paused and then said emphatically, 'I saved your city from Denethor's madness and surrender to Sauron's forces.' He narrowed his eyes. 'You must do as I bid you: the city is already exposed to a great danger.'

'I am sorry my lord,' the guard said apologetically. 'It is by order of the King.' He paused and then his eyes darted to his companion again. 'Is this the creature that is supposed to have killed Ioralas? I thought it had gone?'

'Well it hasn't! Where is Faramir? He must put the city on a curfew and summon the Guard!'

The other Man looked uncomfortable and lowered his voice. 'My lord Mithrandir, Faramir is not even here.' He swallowed and then, taking a breath, he said, 'He has been taken to the Tower of Ecthelion.' The two guards glanced at each other but were clearly unhappy about their orders.

'The Tower!' Gandalf exclaimed. 'For a council, you mean?' He turned to stare up at the Tower that rose above the city. Denethor had kept his political prisoners there. And in the Tower were rooms of torture. Oh, he did not have time for this right now with the Ghoul loose.

The guard looked guiltily at Gandalf. 'No my lord. Not for a council.'

Gandalf stared at him, appalled. 'You cannot mean imprisoned! What has happened here?' Only now did he become aware of an atmosphere of panic, of fear. And now he began to sense it too. Like the fog that was slowly rolling over the city. There was a taste in the mouth, metallic. Like blood.

He paused for only a second. Yes. The air was oily, like the Nazgûl had passed this way. The ghoul was close. Even now it might be watching him. But better stalking him than loose in the city.

'Where is Beregond?' he asked anxiously.

The guards shuffled nervously and then one, shaking his head, said conspiratorially, 'Mithrandir, so much is wrong. Beregond has been dismissed. And all the Palace Guard replaced. That is why we are here and not with the King.' The guard shook his head as if he could not believe it himself. 'Mithrandir, there is new Captain. Sakalthôr. He is cold and hard. Not Faramir's man but he hearkens to that new councilor, Bearos.'

Gandalf pressed his lips together. Cold dread crept through him. This was worse than he had feared. 'Is Aragorn still the King?' he asked suddenly.

'Yes my lord. But he is much changed.'

'Changed?' Gandalf asked, and he glanced back over his shoulder towards the Rath Dínen and the Hallows. The fog was thick again, banked as it had been before he had challenged the ghoul. And impenetrable. Suffocating. Hiding. He felt the ghoul was close. His blue eyes darted back and forth over the Square, but for the moment, the ghoul hid from him. He needed to draw it out.

'How has he changed?' Gandalf turned back to the guards as if he were unaware of the Ghoul's presence.

They shifted, made more nervous by Gandalf's own fear. One leaned forwards slightly as if he did not wish to be overheard, and murmured softly, 'Mithrandir, ever since the lord Legolas went missing, the King has been mad with grief.'

Gandalf froze.

'Legolas is missing?' he repeated slowly. The lingering sense of green-gold deep below the Hallows returned to him, the crushing despair.

Suddenly it all made sense.

Ah, my dear boy, thought Gandalf with immense sadness. They have you. Like they had Rhawion. He felt a deep weight descend upon him, a stone on his chest. The Ghoul was indeed somehow a physical manifestation of the Nazgûl. The Mirror, like the one in Phellanthir, must be a portal into the Eternal Dark…Legolas was in the Hallows, he was certain. A prisoner of the Nazgûl. And the Mirror was wherever he was.

'Yes, my lord. This past few days the Tower Guards have found signs that he went into the wilds towards the Hallows and we have lost him there…'

'How long?' he asked sharply.

'Over a week, my lord.'

The thought of Legolas, that merry soul with all his silliness and his courage, imprisoned, or worse, the Nazgûl slowly feeding off his spirit, sank like a stone and settled in Gandalf's chest. He remembered how he had sent Legolas to distract the Nazgûl from Frodo, sent him with Elrohir up to the Mindolluin, knowing they would come, knowing they would seize the knowledge from him of the One Ring. Knowing they would kill him. But they had not. They had cut his fëa from his body and hunted him. They had enjoyed his terror. They had intended to devour him.

And now it seemed after all this time, they would have their way.

The Ghoul would lead him to Legolas. Suddenly it was clear; he needed to trap and capture the Ghoul, not merely defeat it.

The Guard looked anxiously at Gandalf. 'My lord I should not have spoken so... I have said too much. I beg you…but he helped me, and I want to help Legolas if I can.'

Gandalf squinted at the Man. 'What is your name, my friend?'

'Arduin, my lord. And this is Cendir.'

Gandalf nodded in recognition then. Arduin had been the friend and more of Ioralas. 'Fear not,' he said kindly. 'I will say nothing of what you have told me. You may have peace on that. But you must take me to the King,' he said insistently.

'My lord, if you intend to go to the King you will find that no one is being admitted today. The Great Council has been sitting for hours now to discuss important business.' Cendir glanced behind him towards the dominating Tower of Ecthelion so Gandalf knew exactly what the important business was. Faramir.

'They will admit me,' he said with certainty. If it meant he blasted the doors of the Palace and struck them down with staff and Ring, he would make Aragorn understand. He vowed it.

But Cendir put a hand out in desperation. 'Please Mithrandir.' He licked his lips nervously. 'I tell you this, my lord, because I love Gondor. I do not want it to be torn again by war, not civil strife. But you need to stop them.' He gestured to the Tower, the Palace, the great houses opposite.

'If the King insists on arraigning Faramir for treason as it is rumoured, the families loyal to the Stewards will rebel. There will be bloodshed,' added Arduin. 'I cannot explain it, my lord.' His handsome face was strained and Gandalf saw now that his eyes were full of loss and sadness. 'It is like some dark force is at work. The same force that took Ioralas.' His voice broke a little and Cendir's own face creased with sympathy at Arduin's loss.

'Indeed it is, my good friends,' Gandalf said softly, watching the pair intently. 'The Ghoul that killed Ioralas stalks the city now. It is here, somewhere.' He looked around briefly. ' I need you, Cendir, to find Beregond and bid him assemble his guards to search the city for the Ghoul. Not these new ones of Sakalthôr or whatever his name is, but the ones you can trust. Tell them to alert the Watch and bid all citizens to be on their guard, get inside and lock doors. Stay in groups and keep your weapons at the ready. And you, Arduin, can you find Gimli and give him news of Legolas' disappearance? Carefully though. I want your head still on your shoulders when we next meet. And that will be at the Palace as soon as you can! But be on your guard!' Gandalf opened his hand in a gesture of trust and hope, let Narya flood their hearts with hope and their faces changed, illuminated with light. Go speedily and safely, be trusted. Fill the hearts of those to whom you speak with love and hope and trust.

The two guards' faces transformed briefly and, bowing slightly, they turned and left. But as they left, Gandalf saw how the mist drifted about them, tendrils coiled and curled about them. He took a few steps forwards. Raising his staff, he sent a blast of power into the mist. Light surged around him, lit up the mist like distant, silent lightning. For a moment, the fog drew back and the Rath Dínen emerged from the mist like spikes of burnt trees.

But, the fog waited, like some cognizant thing. His skin crawled with the sense that it was watching him, waiting. There was no doubt in Gandalf's mind that the Ghoul, whatever it was, was the root of this sorcery. It was protecting the Mirror at all costs, and was trying to prevent him from finding Legolas, for if he was right, Legolas was the source of food for the creature.

Lord Eru Illuvatar, let this not be true, he prayed. But in his heart, he knew he was too late to save Legolas.

A drift of cold air crossed him. There was the smell of rotting flesh.

He turned suddenly in time to see a blur of darkness disappear into the mist to his right. There was a hysterical sniggering, giggling and suddenly something crashed into him. He felt teeth bite into his thigh and he brought the staff down hard on the Ghoul's head so it let go with a yelp. He kicked hard but there was nothing.

Eyes wide and breathing hard, Gandalf turned and turned but the mist thickened suddenly, pressed around him. He lifted his hand so Narya blazed like a torch and burned the mist away, cleared a space around him. In the fog directly ahead of him was a darkness, a demon that stared at him. Mad eyes bulged from its white and ghastly face. Its jaw dropped open. It gave a horrific grimace and lunged away into the mist. He saw it leap up and scale the wall that separated the Stewards' House and Palace from the Square and disappear.

Gandalf ran. It was in the Palace gardens. It was going after Aragorn.

0o0o


	34. Chapter 34 Gimli Gloinsson

Chapter 32: Gimli Gloinsson

Gimli strode quickly from the house of the fellowship through the streets of the city. He had the note he had found in the kitchen neatly folded in his pocket and his fingers brushed against it as he walked. Gimli himself had written it, bidding Legolas join him. But that had been weeks ago, when it had been discovered that Kustîg had escaped, and Legolas had said he had not received it. Gimli frowned, trying to remember who could have taken it for he had given it to a messenger boy in the palace. It would be easy to find the boy and ask him.

Here in the upper level of the city, fog had rolled down from the Mindolluin, across the Hallows and through the Citadel Square. It crept into all the corners and silent places of the city and pressed coldly against Gimli's skin, misted in his hair and beard, but there was an oily residue in his mouth and he wiped his lips in disgust as he crossed the Citadel Square towards the Gatehouse of the King's Palace.

There were more people around the Gatehouse, but with the thickening fog they seemed distant, as if moving on the other side of opaque glass and the houses around the square had disappeared. Someone jogged his elbow in the shoving crowd and Gimli glared up at the Man who had pushed him. There was a sense of nervous excitement, of suppressed violence and anticipation amongst the liveried servants and equerries who clustered about the Gatehouse. It reminded him of the eve of battle, like the night before the Battle of the Five Armies when the Elves and Men of Esgaroth and Dale had stood between the Iron Hills and their kin in Erebor. Or before the Morannon.

The fog's cold tendrils curled and coiled about his ankles, legs, and pressed into his mouth. He shuddered. There was something unpleasant about its clinging dampness.

He pushed through the cluster of people towards the heavy wooden outer gates to the Palace. There was a smaller door set into the gates so that people might pass through without the great gates being opened. Since Aragorn had arrived, the gates had always stood wide open but now both the great gates and the smaller inner gate were firmly shut and bolted. Before the gates stood two guards that Gimli did not recognise, but their faces were mean, pinched and their armour did not gleam, Gimli noted disapprovingly. One of them slouched against the wall and watched the crowd greedily and the other had leaned his pike against the gate and was picking his teeth.

Gimli stood before the two guards, and leaned on his axe. He fixed them with his earth-brown eyes and smiled appraisingly, showing his teeth. 'The Lord Gimli Gloinsson to see the King,' he announced and somehow was not surprised when they did not leap to attention, salute and usher him with all pomp and ceremony. Something was wrong here, he felt it in his bones, in the rock and stone of the city. And there was that message he had shoved into his pocket. The fog seemed to swallow his voice.

The bigger of the two guards straightened up from his slouch and with a sneer on his face, said, 'If you do not have a pass, you cannot enter the Palace.'

Gimli looked at him intently, as he would rock and stone to see where the mithril or gold seam was buried deep. 'I do not think you heard me,' he said slowly for the Man must be very dim. 'I am Gimli Gloinsson, companion to the King. I bring tidings from Mithrandir. I am the envoy of the King. It would be stupid,' he said emphatically, 'not to let me in.'

The other guard stopped picking his teeth and watched with an unpleasant smile on his thin lips. Now he shifted but it was to take a dagger from his belt and clean his nails with it. Gimli lifted his lip in disdain: did they think to intimidate him?

'Your captain will hear of your insolence,' Gimli said acerbically. 'I cannot imagine Beregond will appreciate how poorly you represent the Tower Guard.'

The other guard now swaggered forwards and stood deliberately close, towering over Gimli. 'Beregond?' He spat aggressively into the dust. 'It is Salkathôr in charge now.' His hand was on his sword and he pulled it a little from its sheath.

Gimli widened his stance and planted his feet on the stones of the city, let the stones feel him there, and hefted his axe, and though the mist about his feet seemed to thicken strangely as if it sought to suffocate Gimli's connection, he felt the good rock beneath sing. It gave him strength. 'And I suppose you are his lacky!' he said with sardonic brightness.

'I am Lieutenant Urithôr,' the guard bent down towards Gimli to look him in the eye. It was unquestionably an insult and Gimli bared his white teeth.

And then someone touched Gimli's arm and he turned suddenly, hand on his throwing axe. In the mist he could make out the figure of a Man standing close by.

'My lord Gimli?' the Man murmured softly. 'Do you remember me? Arduin. I fought with you at the Morannon and went with Legolas to Minas Morgul.' He bowed slightly and Gimli looked at him carefully. The Man had an open face and clear eyes.

'You were one of those who were on the Rath Dinén the night we found Ioralas.' He nodded at the Man. His face crumpled a little, soft with a grief that Gimli saw in many faces of those in the city, for it was still mourning its dead. And then he remembered that the Man had been more than a friend of Ioralas, and winced at his clumsiness.

'Yes, my lord.' Arduin flicked a quick look at Urithôr, whose face had hardened into a sneer. Arduin leaned towards Gimli. 'I bear greetings from Mithrandir who bids you come. He needs your help.' He tugged gently, urgently at Gimli's sleeve and cut a quick look at the guard. 'Urithôr, I will take the Lord Gimli to Mithrandir as he is bid.'

'Are you not supposed to be guarding the Steward, Arduin?' Urithôr had a sly look on his face. 'Have you abandoned your post? That is a court martial. Salkathôr will hear of this.' His smile was unpleasant and cruel.

Mist curled around their feet and pressed damply against Gimli but he noted the point that Faramir was under guard. Why was that? he wondered. A horrid little suspicion sneaked its way into Gimli's thoughts: Faramir must have committed some heinous crime. Treason? No. He would never do that. Gimli folded his arms over his chest as if to keep away the nasty thoughts, the damp fog.

Arduin pressed his lips together for a moment and then said, 'I have just told you that I am sent to find Lord Gimli by Mithrandir, Urithôr. And you know that there were two of us. Cendir was also on guard duty.'

'Lieutenant Urithôr,' the Man corrected with a nasty smile. 'So Cendir has stayed while you deliver messages like an errand boy.' Arduin did nothing to correct Urithôr and his face was impassive. 'I suppose that is all you are good for now with Beregond dismissed.'

Arduin's face was tight but he said nothing.

Gimli frowned. 'Beregond dismissed?' This did not bode well. Something was happening of which he knew nothing. He cast a look at the guards appraisingly and leaned towards Arduin. He spoke out of the side of his mouth is a loud whisper, 'I can take 'em.' He clasped the haft of his axe in readiness. 'In fact, it will give me joy.'

Urithôr took a step forwards but Arduin's hand fell onto Gimli's shoulder with the familiarity of Aragorn or Legolas, and Gimli instinctively turned towards him and allowed himself to be pulled away. 'Mithrandir needs you, my lord,' Arduin murmured softly as he steered Gimli away with an assurance that Gimli found touching and amusing at the same time.

'You overstep yourself, Arduin.' Urithôr called after him threateningly. 'The king has ordered no-one passes either here or to see the Steward. Now get back to your post before you are arrested yourself for abandoning it, and take the Dwarf with you.'

Gimli opened his mouth and took a breath but Arduin put his hand on his arm and muttered, 'Come my lord. Let us do as we are ordered.' And in a lower voice he added, 'We do the bidding of Mithrandir, not this gutter-filth.' And although it cost Gimli much in pride and honour to walk away from the bullying, sneering Urithôr, he did follow Arduin and vowed in his heart that he would return for satisfaction from Urithôr.

'This way, my lord.' Arduin beckoned to Gimli but the Man glanced back frequently over his shoulder through the dense fog towards the Gatehouse and Gimli did not like that. 'They are not true Tower Guards, my lord,' said Arduin once they were out of sight of the Gatehouse. 'They have no sense of honour and have never taken the vows we make to protect Gondor whatever the cost, whatever the risk to ourselves.' He looked down at the Dwarf. 'Beware of Urithôr, my lord. He is cowardly and violent.'

Arduin led Gimli along the Square. 'In the assault against Osgiliath Urithôr hid amongst the citizens and pretended to defend them. But in truth he robbed them and was the first to flee.' They made their way along the long wall that ran down one side of the Square and behind this was the Palace and the Steward's House. 'I do not know how he had come to be here except that Maltök knew him well, but no one has seen Maltök for days.'

From his tone, Gimli thought that Arduin probably thought this no great loss. He followed Arduin thoughtfully. The mist hung over the city, and damp curled his beard and hair. He smoothed it down crossly for the damp made his hair and beard crinkly and curly and entirely unmanageable.

The Steward's Porch, which was traditionally left open and largesse distributed to the Poor, was also locked and bolted and the fog clung to the stones. The air felt oily and as he breathed in, Gimli found himself feeling resentful, angry at Aragorn for making it so difficult. Some King he was turning out to be! Maybe it would have been better for Faramir to remain as Steward.

He shook himself. Where did that come from?

'Through here, my lord,' Arduin said softly and unlocked the gate to the Steward's porch. Gimli followed him in and they stood in the gardens that linked the Palace and the Steward's house. 'This way. The path goes through the Rose Garden and takes us directly to the King's own study. The King wanted there to be no obstacles between him and Faramir when he first became King.' He sighed. 'How all that has changed, and in such a short time.'

'What has happened with Faramir?' Gimli asked, feeling something had been staring him in the face but that he was missing. Indeed, ever since he and Gandalf had galloped off on a hunt for Fool's Gold, they had been missing something. The Mirror had never left Minas Tirith. The ghoul was here. Still. And Beregond had been dismissed, in his place these thugs.

'Faramir has been arrested. He is accused…' Arduin stopped and turned to Gimli, his eyes full of concern. 'I had best tell you everything now as Mithrandir bid me. But I beg you, my lord, hear me out and let me tell you all before you…'

'Before I what?' Gimli narrowed his eyes.

'My lord Gimli, Mithrandir bid me give you a message and I know not how to do as he said. He said deliver it kindly but I do not have the words or skill to do this gently.'

'What are you talking about?' Gimli scowled impatiently. 'Have you gone soft in the head? What message? What tidings?

Arduin took a deep breath and faced Gimli. 'Faramir has been arrested and accused of having plotted against Legolas.' He shook his head as if he might rid himself of the words and Gimli stared. 'I have terrible news. Legolas has disappeared. In the Hallows, my lord. We have not seen him for over a week.'

'What!' Gimli cried. 'A week!' He was furious; how could a week have gone by and Aragorn sent no word? And how could Legolas have not returned? A nightmare of possibilities opened in his mind; Legolas wounded. Worse. The message crumpled in his fist suddenly took on a whole new meaning. There had been a trick. A plan. Someone had deliberately taken that message and used it much later to lure Legolas somewhere.

'We have searched for him in vain my lord,' Arduin continued, distressed. 'We have been all over the Hallows. But whilst there are traces of his passing, a thread, a hair, we have searched the tombs, the hillside, everywhere and found nothing more but a button that is worn only by the Stewards. It is that which has been cited as evidence against Faramir.'

Gimli glared at him furiously. He wasn't interested in Faramir. Anyone could have dropped a button. What he wanted to know was where Legolas was. 'What was Legolas doing over in the Hallows?' he demanded, his fist crushing the haft of his axe because he needed to feel something that would not give, wanted to be grinding granite into dust with this dreadful news.

'They say Legolas went over the wall to the Hallows in pursuit of some creature and has not been seen since. We are summoning the guard to search for him.'

Gimli knew immediately what had happened. Legolas had gone after the Ghoul. But he knew as well that the Ghoul had lured the Elf into the Hallows and now he was injured or trapped. He could not bear to think anything worse. And he did not hear anything else Arduin might have said for he had already shouldered his axe and strode off shouting, 'Aragorn!' He turned his head briefly towards Arduin and flung over his shoulder, 'You had better tell Gandalf to bring Beregond and some of YOUR troops. And get himself here quick.'

Through the Rose Garden he strode and flung open the glass doors to Aragorn's study. There was no one there, but on the polished desk, placed carefully as if whoever had put them there had done so thoughtfully, was a long wheat-gold hair that Gimli knew was Legolas'. Beside it was a deep green thread that Gimli knew had come from his tunic, for hadn't Gimli himself sewn up the sleeves in tight little stitches to stop the Elf from unravelling the cuff. And a silver button. Slowly, Gimli's hand hovered over the hair, the thread, and then he picked up the button and squinted at it. The Tree of Gondor and Numenor was carefully etched onto the silver dome. It was exquisite work, he acknowledged, and knew this was expensively crafted work. Could Faramir really have been behind Legolas' disappearance? Certainly Legolas would follow if the Steward bid him, thought Gimli, staring down at the button. And Faramir only had to intercept the messenger boy to have obtained Gimli's note and to send it to Legolas when it suited Faramir to bring Legolas to the Hallows.

No. He shook his head. What motive could Faramir possibly have to hurt Legolas?

And then he remembered the feast, and Legolas leaning back, sliding his arm along the back of Eowyn's chair, leaning his head towards hers attentively, laughing with her, and her eyes on Legolas. Faramir had watched the pair miserably and picked at his food. Gimli sighed. It was as good a motive as any, he acknowledged.

He pocketed the silver button and strode determinedly towards the ornately carved and inlaid doors that led from the King's own study and into the Great Hall. He threw open the doors and marched into the great hall.

Gimli had been impressed the first time he saw the Great Hall for the intricately patterned marble floors opened out and the statues of Kings lined the hall. Sunlight came through the great high windows and illuminated the white marble inlaid with coloured stone. The high colonnade and cloisters that lined the great hall were elegantly tall. There was a small gathering of people at the far end of the Hall, well dressed lords and ladies milling about, fans fluttering and eyes wide with excitement or fear, Gimli neither knew nor cared. But there were also guards posted at intervals throughout the hall and Gimli did not remember them being there before he left the city with Gandalf.

'Tell the King I am here,' he declared loudly and grumpily as he passed a wide-eyed footman. And then he added, 'Never mind. I will tell him myself,' and walked straight ahead. The guards began to stand up straighter and shift uncomfortably. One burly guard began to move from the other side of the hall as if to intercept Gimli and Gimli, marching purposefully onwards, let his hand fall upon his throwing axe as he surreptitiously checked the roulettes in his vambraces and let his fingers drift over his leather jerkin for the dirks and knives hidden. He did not look at the guards for now there were more walking towards him and they had quickened their pace.

Suddenly a little fat man hurried up to him, hands fluttering. 'My lord Gimli! How unexpectedly well-timed! We are expecting you but not for a little while. This way!'

It was Aragorn's personal clerk, Gimli remembered. Aradhel. Gimli was about to push past him when he saw how the clerk shot him a complicit look, and then craned his neck to look around Gimli at the guards, his face wary and anxious. He allowed himself to be diverted.

And then he saw through a doorway a Hobbit sitting despondently on a chair far too high for him, head in his hands.

Pippin.

'This way my lord,' Aradhel ushered him towards the small antechamber where Pippin sat. There were trays and platters of dainties and pastries but only a few had been eaten. The other Hobbits were there too and equally concerned or despondent.

'Gimli!' Pippin hopped off his chair and trotted towards him. He smiled at Aradhel who quickly shut the door behind him almost in the guards' faces.

'Where is Gandalf?' asked Frodo quickly.

'He is on his way,' Gimli assured them. 'He has sent a message to me to bring me here.'

'Good,' said Pippin. 'We need him! Aragorn has gone mad and Legolas has been taken by the Ghoul! We are sure of it, aren't we?' He looked around at the other Hobbits, whose faces were grave and sad.

Gimli nodded. 'I have come to the same conclusion myself.'

'My lords,' said Aradhel anxiously, glancing at Pippin. 'It is true that this is very serious but I do not think the King is mad. Indeed, I am certain he is bespelled.'

'Yes. I have been thinking the same. There is some dark force at work here that has taken our friend and is at work here in the court it feels,' said Frodo and he rubbed at his shoulder almost unconsciously and then stopped suddenly. 'It feels of the Nazgûl even though it cannot be.'

Gimli found himself nodding. 'The air in the city, or at least up here, feels like that too…that sort of.. oiliness.'

'I think it's Bearos,' said Pippin with certainty.

Aradhel's eyes were wide and anxious. 'You too?' He looked at the Hobbits and said, 'Bearos has been here working late with the King every night, long after all others have gone. Normally I would stay and do things for him but since he took Bearos to his side, I am dismissed almost immediately. Ever since Bearos came into the King's favour we have seen Faramir arrested, Beregond dismissed, and the Tower Guards replaced with these thugs. And the lord Legolas is gone. Bearos is isolating the King.' Aradhel wrung his hands in distress and whispered, 'But there is more! He seems to have not only the King but half of his council under his spell. The rest are conspiring I am sure, to rescue Faramir and put him on the throne instead.' He shook his head wretchedly. 'I have no evidence, my lords. But I hear things whispered in the corners and shadows. I see how the equerries scuttle between their lords. I watch who talks to whom and I know where the alliances are. There will be rebellion.'

Gimli nodded and clasped the fat little Man's arm in solidarity. 'We will bring him back. We will restore Aragorn to himself and we will find Legolas.' He hefted his axe. 'And I will give him a good thumping if he does not. Pippin!' Gimli beckoned to Pippin and the other hobbits crowded around him. 'You will come with me. Sam, you stay with Frodo. Merry, you come with me too.'

Frodo opened his mouth to protest but before he could speak, Sam looked Gimli squarely in the eye. 'Begging your pardon, Gimli, but Frodo and I will be going with you, won't we?'

Frodo smiled tightly. 'I wouldn't miss this for the world!'

'I will send one of my clerks to wait for Gandalf and bring him here,' Aradhel said excitedly and Gimli nodded gravely. Clerks they may be and not warriors, he thought, but clerks and servants could go places warriors could not, do things quietly, surreptitiously. A good ally indeed. Aradhel's eyes were alit with fervour at Gimli's command. Here was one who loved Aragorn, thought Gimli approvingly. He would do as Gimli bid.

The Hobbits trotted alongside Gimli excitedly as the Dwarf strode to the door and threw it open, marching back into the great hall. 'Tell the King that I am here,' he said loudly to the Great Hall in general. 'Tell him that I demand his attention for I have news from Umbar and tidings from Gandalf.' He lowered his voice threateningly, used the power of the Khazâd to command rock and stone, felt the bones of the Men move under the power of his voice. 'Tell him that I will not wait.'

One of the burly guards pushed himself away from the wall against which he slouched and began to walk towards Gimli purposefully, as they had before, his shifty eyes narrowed and fastened upon Gimli. Gimli realised then that they had not been fooled for a moment by Aradhel and merely waited for him to reemerge. But they did not know the Khazâd. And they did not know that Gimli was armed to the teeth and the Hobbits were as ferocious little warriors as could be. Gimli smiled baring his teeth as another guard moved in.

'Open those doors!' he bellowed, swinging his axe and making his way through the chamber with the inexorability of a landslide. 'I am Gimli Gloinsson and I have tidings from Mithrandir and from Umbar for the ears of the King only.'

Pippin danced around him, grinning and darting glances at the guards. 'I'll take the one on the left,' he hissed loudly.

'And I'll take the one on the right,' Merry joined in with ferocious delight.

'But that only leaves me with the three coming up behind us,' Gimli shot a grin at them both.

But as it happened they did not need to even draw a weapon for at that moment, the heavy double doors that led to the council chamber swung open and a young Man burst from the chamber, followed by an older one close on his heels.

'It is not right that we decide his fate without even the Steward's presence!' declared the younger Man, strident and angry as he entered the hall. There was a fluttering of interest, of darting glances from the cluster of lords and ladies who waited outside the chamber and who had been watching Gimli with interest. The approaching guards faltered momentarily and Gimli strode past the two Men.

The older lord hushed the young Man anxiously, casting Gimli a quick, appraising gaze, and he murmured something to him. Nardol, Gimli remembered. The son of Forlong, and it was Angbor who told him to be silent.

'I care not!' the young Man cried loudly. 'It is a shame upon the King that he allows this!'

The guards shifted and glanced towards the young Man and Gimli paused and turned his head towards Angbor for he had been the first to swear fealty to Aragorn and he was a good man. Gimli did not want to see him come to harm.

Angbor had closed his eyes briefly in fear for his young friend and when he opened them, he addressed Gimli. 'Forgive him my lord. He is young and stupid! He does not know what he says.'

Gimli scowled. 'But I could not agree with him more! The King seems to have taken leave of his senses!' he bellowed as loudly as he could through the still open door. 'It is a good thing you have a Dwarf amongst you to sort it out.' And so saying he strode into the King's chamber and placed himself squarely in the middle of the doorway, barring the entrance effectively.

Aragorn was sitting at the head of the long council table, a few of his lords gathered around with faces grim. In Aragorn's hand was a sheaf of papers which he held aloft and he was speaking passionately. Hirluin, whom Gimli knew quite well, leaned over the polished table, his hands on either side of a number of other papers and seemed to be scrutinising them carefully. He looked up at Gimli's entrance and stared. There was also another Man standing close by but his face seemed inhuman somehow, his jaw overlong and his eyes were blood-shot. He stared at Gimli with something like hatred. He seemed almost half-orc and Gimli was taken aback for a moment. How did Aragorn tolerate such a creature in his city let alone his council chamber?

But the Dwarf would deal with that later. For now he had business with the King. He strode over to Aragorn and Aragorn straightened, met the Dwarf's eye until they stood toe to toe, eye to chest. It made Gimli even grumpier. 'What is this nonsense you command?' he said aggressively, his hair crackling with irritation and his eyes flaming. 'Beregond dismissed, Faramir arrested.'

Behind him, Gimli heard the patter of the Hobbits' feet and a faint cheer from Pippin. He took a breath and shouted loudly, 'Legolas missing! What sort of a King are you that lets his friends wander off so easily and then cannot find them!'

There was a flurry of anger from some of the lords but Aragorn held out a hand. 'Calm yourself, Master Dwarf. I forgive you for the love I bear you. But my patience will only go so far.' His eyes were cold and hard.

'Stop talking like an idiot!' Gimli demanded. He lifted his hand and rapped Aragorn on the head quite hard so the King blinked and pulled back. 'Seems you have lost what little sense you had. Where is this coming from?'

There was an outraged murmur from the assembled lords and one or two rose to their feet. A clatter of swords announced the tardy arrival of the guards that had been outside the chamber and were now approaching Gimli.

Aragorn threw a hand towards the guards to halt them. He drew himself tall. 'You forget yourself, Master Dwarf. I am the King now, not just some Ranger you have travelled with.'

'Travelled with, fought with, ate and drank with, and as Legolas would say, pissed and shit with.' He paused emphatically and met Aragorn's gaze squarely. 'And saved each other's lives over and over and over,' Gimli growled.

But Aragorn remained unmoved. His strong and noble face seemed frozen, stone. His gaze unwavering.

'Salkathôr!' he called, without looking away. A tall, wiry Man swaggered towards them, his thin lips curled into a sardonic smile that boded very ill. Gimli had seen him at the entrance of the hall earlier. This was Beregond's replacement, Gimli remembered, and the Man's hand was on the hilt of his sword, poised. He but needed a reason to draw that sword and fight.

Gimli watched him sharply, gauged the strength of the other Men, the guards, saw the Hobbits readying themselves too. We are not without some chance, the Dwarf thought calculatingly. Would Aragorn let one of his friends be hurt?

The King's next words answered that question for him.

'Escort the Lord Gimli out of here please. If he does not obey, take him to the Tower where he can reflect upon his words.'

Gimli heard the Hobbits gasp behind him and the guards moved around him. There was a murmur from the lords gathered around the table but Gimli knew that they would not see anything amiss with Aragorn's actions; they were used to Denethor and they did not know Aragorn. But Gimli was ready. He swung his axe lightly and planted his feet firmly on the ground.

'Strider!' Sam's voice was reproachful and full of misery. 'What are you doing?' He shook his head in disappointment and for a moment, Aragorn's face flickered and then his eyes went blank.

'That is not my name,' he said coldly. 'I am Elessar, King of the United Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor. And you will do my bidding.'

Suddenly Pippin thrust forward, his face upset and red. 'This is all you!' he cried, pointing at the ugly Man standing behind Aragorn. 'You, Bearos, or whatever your name really is. You're the cause of all this!'

Gimli swung his gaze towards the orc-like Man who was rising to his feet, hands on his breast as if pained, but his eyes, Gimli noticed, were gleeful and wild and his mouth was stretched.

'Me? I am a humble merchant who only seeks to serve the King,' the Man said obsequiously and Gimli was absolutely reminded of Grima Wormtongue. Bearos turned towards the King with his hands outstretched. 'My lord, all I have done is to serve you, but if the lords Perianath wish for me to be sent from your side, I will go immediately. Perhaps I can serve another way.'

'No.' Aragorn's face was creased with effort and he spoke slowly as if it was a huge effort. 'Bearos has done nothing. Salkathôr, take the lords Perianath and the Lord Gimli from here. Take them home and guard them. Make sure they are safe.'

Gimli saw the hefty guards striding towards him and the lords assembled around the table murmured softly and in outrage. But Gimli hefted his axe and braced himself. 'I would like to see them try!' he roared and scowled at Aragorn. 'You would have Frodo and Sam arrested? The two greatest heroes the world has ever known! They went into Mordor and you only have this throne because of them!' He shook his head. 'You should hang your head in shame. Isildur's Heir indeed, and as weak as he after all.'

'Strider!' Sam cried again and Aragorn wavered, closing his eyes and seeming to struggle with some inner demon. But then something happened. Bearos made a circle in the air and Gimli saw something rear up behind Aragorn. A shadow. Darkness. Something seemed to loom over him and Sam gave a cry.

'Aragorn!' It was Frodo this time and Gimli hurled himself towards Aragorn, ready to beat the darkness down though he had no idea how.

But Sam was closer and he reached out to Aragorn and touched him. Suddenly Bearos's hand shot out and he smacked away Sam's hand, and then shoved Sam hard, away from Aragorn so that Sam fell to the ground.

All hell was let loose. The guards leapt forwards, swords drawn and one grasped Frodo, another held a sword to Sam's throat where he had fallen. Gimli hefted his axe and landed the haft of it on the knuckles of the guard so he leapt back and Sam scrambled to his feet. Pippin kicked another on the shins and Merry grabbed Aragorn and shook him. Aragorn stepped back, and the held Merry at arm's length with both hands, his face strangely conflicted. The lords were on their feet shouting, some at the guards and some at the hobbits. And then suddenly there was a blinding white light and a sound imploded and Gimli suddenly couldn't hear anything.

0o0o

Gandalf did not like the way the fog had curled around the Citadel Square and had eased itself into the corners and alleyways of the city. Dense now, he felt it was tricking him and sending him the direction he would not go. More than once he found himself at the mouth of the Rath Dinén as if it would drive him into the Hallows and swallow him. But Narya burned the fog in front of him and showed him the cobbled streets and way back to the Palace. There Gandalf had dealt swiftly with the guards who tried to prevent him from entering the Palace with a quick rap on their heads and a word or two of silencing which left them both standing still and stunned at least long enough for the Wizard to stride past them and into the Palace. The fat little clerk who worked with Aragorn had scuttled up quickly, black robe slung over one arm so he could run more quickly. When he saw Gandalf he beckoned him and bid Gandalf follow him quickly before the King completely lost the Kingdom and did something irreparable.

'As if arresting Faramir is not enough,' grumbled Gandalf, but he ran nevertheless. It seemed things were more dangerous than even he had thought. 'As if losing Legolas is not enough, and bringing the entire Mirkwood force to Minas Tirith is what he seeks!'

The fog was thickest over the gardens and fountains of the Palace and he stuck close to Aradhel, who simply trotted unerringly to the Courtyard of the White Tree, sticking up out of the mist like a gallows. Up the straight path and into the Palace they went. There were no guards at all, which was strange, thought Gandalf, for usually the Tree was guarded.

'My lord, to the Council Chamber, quickly. My lord Gimli is there with the lords Perianath but Bearos is there too and I dread to think what he might do,' Aradhel panted.

Gandalf knew where he was now, but though the fog was outside, he noticed a drift of thin mist snaking over the marble floors, insinuating, winding its way through the Palace. This was no ordinary mist, he knew. It was sorcery.

There was a clamour around the doors to the Council Chamber and it seemed that a troop of guards was forcing its way in whilst lords and ladies and court gentlemen watched in consternation, eyes wide, and some shaking their heads, some murmuring to each other. Gandalf rushed into the chamber after the guards and saw uproar: Gimli was striking a Tower Guard with the haft of his axe but there were two more running towards him, swords drawn. Frodo was shoving another guard away from himself, Pippin was kicking someone and Merry was throwing himself at Aragorn. There were lords and nobles shouting at each other and gesticulating wildly. Gandalf looked for Sam to ascertain that everyone was here. Sam was recoiling from something that Gandalf could not yet see.

And then Aragorn moved and Gandalf saw it; without question, it was the Ghoul. It looked straight at him with its mouth stretched wide in a horrid grin. Its eyes were bulging from its sockets, blood-shot and staring. How had it managed to get in here and only Sam seemed to be aware of it?

'Ólorin!' it laughed horribly, a screeching, grating sound. 'Too late! I have them all! Too late! Too latetoolatetoolate!' It grinned and yammered and its jaw clacked horribly.

Appalled, Gandalf sent a blast of white power across the room. It imploded softly and burst in silence. Everyone slowed and became still and silent. But the Ghoul, with a triumphant expression on its horrible and deranged countenance, moved its hand. Something gleamed in the light, steel-silver. The Ghoul lunged towards Aragorn who turned slowly, lethargically. At the same time, Gimli lunged heavily towards it. Too late. The knife flashed again and the Ghoul thrust towards Aragorn. But somehow, Sam was there and smashed something down onto the Ghoul's hand, smashed it again until the knife flew from its taloned and clawed hands. Sam stood, breathing hard, with one piece of a shattered bowl in his hand that he had snatched up from the table. Blood flooded over Aragon's robes and he sank slowly to the floor like he had crumpled. The Ghoul fled.

Chaos erupted. The lords were on their feet, gathering about Aragorn but the Hobbits and Gimli were already there, easing Aragorn to the floor, bundling cloaks and cushions beneath his head. 'Gandalf!' bellowed Gimli.

'Guards!' Gandalf cried as he rushed to Aragorn's side. 'Block all the exits! Get into the gardens! Search for that creature.'

But the guards now stood in silence and still, like unanimated statues, and suddenly Gandalf knew the truth. The Ghoul had possessed these Men, had animated them with its sorcery. But now it had no use for them and had withdrawn, leaving them as empty husks. It appalled him.

'Gimli, go and find Beregond. He should already be on his way. I sent Cendir to fetch him. Tell him to take his Men and find this Ghoul. Search the Hallows. It will have fled there.'

'That's where Legolas went,' cried Pippin, kneeling beside Aragorn and gently wiping his pale face with a handkerchief. Gimli nodded in understanding and left.

'Yes,' said Gandalf urgently. 'I very much hope it will lead us to him!' Gandalf spared a glance for Aragorn, misery settling into his bones at the Man's white face. Blood soaked his robes and his chest heaved. His eyes darted back and forth from Pippin to Gimli as if he did not understand.

Gandalf flung his staff onto the curved council table and came to the King's side and stood looking down. He squinted then at Aragorn. 'What have we here?' he said softly and narrowed his eyes, seeing beyond the veil of flesh to the spirit. There was a darkness about Aragorn and Gandalf leaned down closer.

The darkness coiled into itself, denser, like the fog that smothered the upper levels of the city. But here, it thickened about the fallen King, became a serpent of darkness and its red eyes glittered at Gandalf maliciously, as if it were pleased with itself.

'Oh I see how I have been duped,' Gandalf muttered angrily with himself. 'You have sent me on a pretty quest.' He strode towards the serpent and it raised its head, tongue flickered over its dry lipless mouth. It seemed to smile.

'Héca, angu!' Gandalf cried and smote it with his staff, with Narya, so the room blazed with light. Smoke poured from Aragorn's shoulders, and the serpent writhed, thrashing its tail and head and opening its jaws wide as if it would engulf Aragorn.

The serpent writhed and thrashed and poured its coils in frenzy over and around and ever more tightly and frenziedly while Gandalf thrust Narya like a spear into its dark coils. The serpent thrashed around Narya's white light and then quite suddenly, it reared up over Gandalf and opened it jaws. Its red eyes glittered maliciously, and it pulled back as if to strike. Poised, it drew up and then, just as Gandalf expected it to strike, it evaporated.

There was nothing left but an oily slick in the air.

Gandalf frowned after it. 'That was a little too easy,' he said and then became aware of shouting, of voices, and he stepped back into the World.

Aragorn was choking now, breathing hard as if he had been suffocating and was now free. His hands pressed against the wound and he squeezed his eyes shut in pain. The lords were on their feet and shouting, some angry, some confused and alarmed.

'Quiet,' said Gandalf slowly, softly and let calm spread. 'It is finished. The darkness has gone.'

'Gandalf?' It was Aragorn. He struggled weakly to sit up but there were hands gently pressing him back.

'Don't move, Aragorn,' Frodo was saying softly for Aragorn's face was white and Frodo's hands were bloody where he had gently pushed Aragorn back. 'You have been badly hurt. But there are healers on their way.'

Sam turned to Gandalf, his face distressed. 'It isn't fair, Gandalf. We come all this way and it should be at peace now. But instead Strider's been hurt and Legolas…we still don't know where Legolas is. Or if he's even still alive.'

Gandalf sighed. 'I know, Sam. I am leaving Aragorn in your care now. I am going to look for Legolas.' He saw Gimli stir and open his mouth, knew he would want to come with Gandalf and he clasped the Dwarf's shoulder. 'Go and find Beregond for me. The Ghoul will come to the Rath Dinén.' He leaned close and whispered in the Dwarf's ear. "Lay a trap for it. We need to capture it, force it to lead us to where it has Legolas. I am sure it is responsible for our friend's disappearance.' Gimli listened intently and nodded. 'Let us hope that he yet lives.'

Gimli turned his warm brown eyes to Gandalf and they were filled with fear and sorrow. 'Trust me, Tharkûn. It will not pass me.'

As he left, there were already healers rushing around and a litter prepared to take Aragorn somewhere more comfortable. Gandalf, no healer himself, could only hope that they could do enough to save him.

0o0o


	35. Chapter 35 Pursuit

Apologies for the time taken to post this. But the good thing is I have a week off and the next chapter is already half written!

Beta: Anarithilien. Thank you

Thank you to the very many reviewers and those who leave Kudos etc. It really helps and is so encouraging.

 **Chapter 35: Pursuit**

Arwen felt it like a knife. She bent over gasping and clutching her breast.

'Aragorn!' she cried.

Elladan pulled up and turned a tight circle around her palfrey who stood quietly, chewing the silver bit in her mouth. Arwen's long black hair hung down over her mare's neck as she leaned forward in agony like she had been shot and an arrow in her breast. The ground seemed to spin towards her but she felt a strong arm catch her as she fell. But then, as she was lowered to the ground, she thought she saw a child running away from her through long meadow grass and stared after it in longing. Her child? Her lips moved but she could not speak.

'Arwen?' Her brother's concerned voice drifted over her, somewhere above her head. But she could not reply. A blade was in her heart. She clutched at it, thinking she should see blood but there was none.

Gentle hands lifted her, placed her gently on the thick grass. Voices around her.

'She cried Aragorn's name as she fell.' That was Elladan, she thought dully. His voice was anxious, concerned but she could not answer and stared at the ground. A small spider was spinning her web out over the blades of grass. The breeze rippled the skeins of silk.

'What is happening?' Glorfindel's voice called above the steady hoofbeats of Asfaloth. Her own palfrey snuffed her hair briefly and then fell to tearing at the grass, a moment of rest in the pell-mell gallop towards the city. 'Arwen?' Glorfindel came to kneel beside her and lifted her face towards him. She gazed at his fearless face, his eyes that had seen the light of the trees in his first life and the memory of which remained.

'I felt Aragorn…' She moaned and doubled over again as pain squeezed her heart, crushed her chest. 'He is…I don't know.' Tears welled in her eyes and she could not bear it.

Erestor and Elrohir had arrived back for they had been ahead. 'Arwen?' Elrohir leapt down from his black horse and cradled Arwen in his arms. 'What do you feel? Is it Aragorn?'

And suddenly she felt a yawning emptiness. She saw Aragorn as if he was there with her on the green sward, a blade of light in his hand that she recognised with a gasp; the Evenstar. But behind him and over him loomed a serpent of darkness and its jaws were wide and then it plunged down, engulfing him.

It was gone. The vision had dissipated in the morning light.

'He is gone,' she whispered. 'I cannot feel him in my heart. He is gone.' She stared up at Elrohir and he met her gaze with a gasp. She clutched at his tunic, eyes wide. 'Moryo, it cannot mean that he is….I cannot have lost him! Not after all this!' Her eyes filled with tears but her belly, her womb shriveled at the idea. 'If he has, then still will I take the Way of Men!' she cried in anguish. 'I will follow him now…' But no more words would come and she leaned over in the agony of loss and grief that overwhelmed her.

She did not hear the hurried conversation above her head, the urgent agreement. She did not even notice when Elrohir mounted his black horse and charged off, or when Elladan followed, leaving her with Glorfindel and Erestor.

0o0o

Elladan looked back over his shoulder to where his sister leaned against Glorfindel in a swoon. Then he looked ahead to where his brother charged across the land of Anorien, a cloud of dust in his wake. Above them, Amon Dîn towered, the beacon that had summoned the help of the Rohirrim but now lay silent and dark. Minas Tirith was close now, a long day's ride and if they rode like the wind they would arrive during the night, which Elrohir seemed determined to do and Barakhir was willing. He urged Baraghur after his brother and they swept along the southern reaches of the Ered Nimrais towards the White City, while his heart thundered with fear that Aragorn was dead.

0o0o0

Gimli was breathless when he met Beregond at the entrance to the Rath Dinén. He hurried towards the small troop of Men gathered there but even from this distance he could see that Beregond's jerkin was already bloody, his sword drawn and face streaked with dirt. Arduin, whom Gimli had met earlier, looked serious. His eye was bruised and there was a cut on his knuckle. Twenty or so doughty Tower guards clustered around Beregond and all looked as though they had been fighting. They turned towards Gimli with grim, determined faces.

'It is as you see, Master Gimli,' called Beregond as Gimli approached. 'Salkathôr's thugs are not so willing to give up their place at the city gates and there are enough of them to defend the sixth and seventh levels against us.' His men gathered about Gimli. 'We have taken back the Seventh Gatehouse now though and Lord Forlon has taken the rest of my men to free the Sixth Gate. Once we have the Gates, the rest will follow. Cendir is leading an attack on Urîthor and the Palace. As far as I know, messages are coming that the lower levels are unaffected.'

Gimli nodded briefly. 'Gandalf has freed the King of the sorcery that was cast over him. Will it come as a surprise to you that Bearos is the Ghoul?'

Beregond gasped and shook his head and there was a murmur of anger from his men and Arduin's mouth was a thin bitter line.

Gimli continued, 'He had bewitched the King so that you were dismissed and Faramir arrested. Once he was discovered though, Bearos attacked the King and has now fled,' he said briefly. 'Gandalf thinks that he will come this way. We need to capture him and force him to take us to Legolas.'

'Is the King well?' Beregond asked in alarm and the other Men gathered round, casting anxious glances at each other.

Gimli said nothing for a moment for Aragorn had looked very pale when Gimli had left to pursue Bearos and catch up with Beregond. 'He is badly injured it is true and there was much blood, but I have seen him survive worse,' he said soothingly. 'It is not a major wound and there were many healers in attendance by the time I left. As long as they stitch it and keep it clean I am sure it will be no more than an interesting scar.' But though he spoke confidently, he remembered the terrible wound, the blood, the panic of the healers as Aragorn was lifted onto a litter and taken away. Frodo and Sam had been clinging to each other and were as pale as Aragorn himself. Tears had run down Pippin's face.

'The Ghoul will not have him,' Gimli vowed silently to himself, 'And it will not have Legolas either.'

'Good,' Beregond's voice pulled him from his thoughts. 'Then let us plan to catch Bearos as he comes this way. Do you have a plan?'

Gimli tugged at his own beard. Everything depended of course on Bearos actually coming over the Rath Dínen and having men who were swift and nimble. The Ghoul had outrun and outplayed Legolas twice and Gimli could not bear it if the Ghoul eluded him now too and they never found Legolas.

Of course there was no time to be elaborate and so he had to improvise. He looked around, searching for things they could use. At first, he frowned for there was little even for a Dwarf's ingenuity. And then he saw through the archway to the Royal Mews where the haywains were netted to stop any hay falling from the carts. A smile stole across his face. 'Yes. I have a plan,' he said.

0o0o

Bearos hid. Skulked. He watched with bright, gleeful malice as the Zigûr ran hither and thither, searching futilely, but Bearos cloaked himself with fog, deep, dense and sank into it, hiding. Even Narya could not find him though she blazed with brilliance and power and swept like a blade, searching for him. Bearos was wondrous of her power, desirous of her beauty and might. What might he do if he had both Khamûl and Narya?

'You would be incinerated should you take her upon your weak and decrepit hand, said Khamûl with contempt. We will take Narya when we are renewed, when we have rid ourselves of your exhausted corpse and taken our new body with its vigour and strength.'

 _We will take Yôzâira?_

 _No. Not he, but Ravéyön. It is he we want, need._

 _Yes. His power will feed us._

 _He will release us._

There were more voices in Bearos' head, pressing him, pushing him. Moving him. Khamûl pulsed energy into his bones, muscles, stretched his sinews and bunched his muscles.

The Zigûr had been joined by Men of the Tower Guard, the old Guard, the Men loyal to the King, not the ruffians Bearos had deliberately recruited and cultivated. These Tower Guards were Beregond's men, and searched for Bearos, systematically, thoroughly, professionally. They would find him. But not easily, Bearos swore. He strained to see where Beregond was, but he was not here. Bearos hoped he had been killed, painfully and slowly

Now Bearos' own men were coming, answering his call; they were heavy cudgels of meat that would fight thoughtlessly without regard for their own skin. Animated by Khamûl, they came now to where Bearos hid, to protect and shelter him so he could escape. Some were ponderous, heavy limbed and blank-eyed. But not all of them. Others were greedy, like Maltök had been, and Tyresis. Salkathôr was amongst these, and Urilthôr. They swung cudgels and heavy sticks as well as swords and they walked heavily towards Beregond's Men and then ran full tilt into battle.

Bearos sniggered to himself at the fighting, the blood, the battered and broken bones. The Zigûr fought Bearos' thugs, irritation clear on his face. He should be tired, thought Bearos, and Narya depleted, but even so, they were still too strong for Khamûl alone.

Bearos slid from the shadows, weaving the fog more densely once again and sending it amongst Beregond's men. It twisted and coiled about them so they stumbled or lost themselves in the fog. Bearos sniggered as the fog gathered and coiled and reared up over their heads, blinding them and suffocating them. One Man stood staring upwards, his face frozen in horror as if he saw the serpent that reared up, jaws gaping, above them. Others stumbled about in the fog, clutching each other or standing staring into the mist. So when Salkathôr and his henchmen ran into the fog, cudgels lifted, the Tower guards blundered and stumbled clumsily, stabbing at shadows in the mist and Salkathôr grinned. He bared his teeth and raised his cudgel, brought it down hard over a Man's head so that he stumbled sideways. Salkathôr hit him again and again until the Man fell upon his knees, hands raised to protect him head. Salkathôr stood over the Man and his cudgel smashed down upon the man's head again and again until his eyes rolled back in his head as he fell heavily to the ground.

There were shouts and curses from Salkathôr's men and the awful sound of heavy sticks on flesh, of the slit of knives through skin.

Bearos spluttered with laughter and skulked between the rose bushes and trees, slid with the curling fog through the gardens. He dodged between the Zigûr and Ulrithôr who fought hard, the white staff smashing over the Man's shoulders so he stumbled but Salkathôr barged the Zigûr so that Urilthôr was able to wriggle away from the white staff and then land a blow that had the Zigûr reeling.

'Take that, old Man!' Salkathôr screamed, hitting the Zigûr again and again with his cudgel.

Bearos saw his chance and quickly cast a rope of fog and smoke and sorcery around the Zigûr's neck, coiled it around him so it tightened and tightened until his hands went up to his neck and he suddenly gasped in recognition that this was sorcery and his eyes were afraid. He struggled with the rope but Bearos pulled it tight so the Zigûr fell to his knees and Salkathôr saw his chance and stood above the Zigûr, his heavy cudgel raining blows upon the old Man.

'Old bastard! Think…you…can…order…me…' Each word was punctuated with a blow, each one harder and bloodier than the last. Bearos chittered in amusement and then he saw that the white staff had fallen from the Zigûr's hands during the struggle and lay almost at Bearos' feet.

He licked his lips and stared at it for a moment and then touched it with his foot.

It burned and flared! He leapt away from it and then kicked it hard, quickly, as far from the Zigûr as he could and then shrank back into the fog in case Narya sensed him for the Zigûr still had her.

Bearos realised that much as he would like to stay and witness the Zigûr's fall, he had to escape now if he was to stay free. He turned and shoved through the fighting men, dodging their blows and stooping low. A blade swooped suddenly overhead and he ducked just in time and then was more careful. Looking back briefly, he saw that the Zigûr had struggled back to his feet and Salkathôr was hunched over, clutching his belly and Ulrithôr was looking hesitantly from the Zigûr back to Salkathôr. Bearos knew he was considering running. But before he could do anything more, he felt the force of the Zigûr beginning to summon Narya's power so she began to glow with light. Bearos ran then, letting his hands, his feet elongate and his limbs stretch until he could bound like a wolf, a dog, a half orc through the fog-bound gardens and scramble up over the high wall.

Behind him, was the clash of swords and the shouting of Men but ahead of him lay the Citadel Square. Further along towards the Palace he could hear more fighting but it was muffled by the fog. He knew now that his dominion over the city was gone. It would not be long before his henchmen were overpowered unless he used Khamûl and thrust power into his limbs, stretched their mouths wide and gave them teeth such as his.

But he shrugged. They were not important. This was not important. It was entertaining to cause mayhem in the city, to set the King against the Steward, but it was not important.

No.

The Elf, Yôzâira, was important.

Ravéyön was important.

Bearos sniggered uncontrollably. Spluttered. It was so funny to think of the Elf, Yôzâira, waiting in the dark in terror, listening out for Bearos' return. It amused him too that the Elf had been so easily convinced that the Steward had been nearby. Laughter escaped his thin lips, spluttered from him. And the Elf was convinced too that Ravéyön would not reach him in time, that he would be devoured before he could be rescued. Bearos' jaw clacked and he clenched his teeth trying to stop the clacking in case he was heard. But there seemed to be no one in the Square below.

The fog lay thickly, suffocating. The great houses of the noble families rose up out of it gloomily like empty shells and the sound of fighting had drawn a little closer. Fog poured itself like a serpent's dry coils around him, over the walls and into the square below. He slid down the wall and crouched at the bottom of it, watching, letting his red tongue loll from his slack mouth. The fog drew about him like a cloak and he lunged forwards uncoordinated and uncontrolled now, and lurched towards the Rath Dínen.

There was no one on the streets. He clacked his teeth in irritation and suspicion; he could have done with blood right now to assuage his hunger. Was everyone engaged in fighting, either one side or the other? That would suit him well if the noble families had taken up arms against the King, or against the Steward. Or had the Zigûr warned the citizens that the ghoul was at large in the city, prowling, hunting?

He lifted his muzzle and sniffed, long and hard. Yes. Here it was. The hot stink of fear. It excited him and made him swell, hard with lust, and couldn't help the gibber and yip of excitement. His eyes strained and searched for the telltale red blurring in the fog that showed him where there was blood, pulsing, throbbing blood in the veins of man or beast. Nothing. Not here. His jaw clacked and gibbered and he stretched his hands and feet, and shook his head from side to side like a dog, shook his head as if to rid himself of this human visage. He sniffed the air again, lifted his head muzzle in the air and his jaw clacked again. Drool and spittle shook from his jaws.

A reddish blur moved far ahead of him in the fog. It bobbed around like it floated in water, hands busy with something.

Bearos crept forwards silently.

The red blur, pulsing, blood throbbing through rich veins, coalesced, densified. A short, stocky figure was standing just there in the grey mist, his back to Bearos. But there was something long and sharp strapped to his back, it glinted in the dim light. Bearos paused; the short man was armed but he did not have his weapon drawn and he had no idea that Bearos was here, edging forwards on silent feet. Bearos stretched and flexed his clawed hands, pulled back his lips and bared his long incisors.

Slowly the figure straightened and turned towards him, as if aware of his peril. Bearos could help the excited yammer that escaped his jaws and the stocky figure straightened, startled, hand going to its hip where a knife should be. Or a sword? Bearos did not give it time to draw but lunged at the figure which staggered back. Snarling Bearos flung himself forwards and the man turned, baffled and disorientated by the thick, clinging fog, and fled towards the gaping mouth of the Rath Dínen.

Bearos' jaw clacked and yammered in excitement. It was exactly where he wanted the man to flee. But he was surprised too at how fast the figure moved and there was something odd about the earthy scent, which was not quite a Man. It reminded him of the deep places beneath mountains. There was an oddness about his gait as well, but Bearos did not really care. His prey fled towards the Rath Dínen, which was where Bearos wanted to be, so he could chase it into the Hallows, hunt it in the dense, curling fog that drew itself close. Bearos gibbered and leapt after it.

He could hear its breath coming hard as it ran, and he paused briefly to sniff the air. The hot stink of fear edged the fog, emanating from the great houses that lined the square, the grand streets that led off into the city itself. But there was nothing coming from the stocky figure he pursued.

Bearos dropped to all fours now, long hands, long feet. He dragged his long talons deliberately so they rattled on the stones. The stocky figure had turned towards him as if reluctant to run down the Rath Dínen and Bearos sniggered. Of course not! The Silent Street led only to the Hallows, to the Tombs of Stewards and long dead Kings.

The stocky man was standing alert, peering into the fog as if he knew Bearos was there. Bearos gave a soft laugh and rattled his claws again, enjoying the chase, the fear. The man was backing away from him now, slowly, and Bearos crouched and hid in the fog, enjoying the game, waiting. Silently now, he sidled forwards, lifting his lips and baring his teeth, sneaking forwards on all fours. It had become so much easier to hunt on all fours. The man had turned now and was facing him, his body stiff and alert. He can hear me now, thought Bearos, probably the clack of his claws on the polished stones. He crept forwards and gave a quiet snigger, just loud enough for his quarry to hear. The man backed away a bit more and Bearos followed step for step, rattling his claws, letting his jaw clack for it terrified the Elf and it would terrify this man too.

Suddenly the man shouted loudly, looking upwards. Surprised, Bearos followed his gaze upwards, and at the same moment, the man thrust himself away far more powerfully than any Man should be able.

Two things happened at that moment.

Bearos realised it was the Khazâd, and something fell over Bearos from above.

He leapt forwards after the Khazâd but too late! Heavy ropes. A net. It closed around him, and he snarled and thrashed and struggled. Khamûl became a snake and the fog gathered to him, writhing and thrashing, and Bearos swore and spat and hissed. A troop of Men trotted towards him out of the fog, long pikes and lances pointed towards him. Several prodded him with their sharp points through the net and he turned towards them, clawing at them through the ropes, but his struggles only made the net cling more tightly to him.

He was caught. He yowled and gibbered and tore at the ropes, clawed at any Man who came close enough. Then the Khazâd appeared through the mist, sharp eyes boring into him, feet planted on the stone, and Khamûl, Bearos could see how he drew the energy of the stone towards him, into him.

Be still! Khamûl wrenched Bearos, caught at his throat and held him still. Bearos collapsed as if he were dead or wounded. Immediately there was shouting and cursing and the Khazâd, alarmed, came towards him carefully.

Bearos watched him cunningly as he commanded the men. So, it was the Khazâd who had captured him. How interesting, Bearos thought and lay flat and still while the men milled about anxiously, holding their sharp pikes towards him but not touching him, not killing him. They wanted him alive, Bearos realised. Of course. They wanted Yôzâira. They wanted the Elf. Eventually one would lift the net from him and then, thought Bearos, he would pounce. He would tear out their hearts and eat them, dripping with blood and still pounding with fear.

The Khazâd approached slowly, gesticulating to the other men that they should hold back. Bearos held very still, held his breath so the wicked little Khazâd would believe he was dead.

The Khazâd came towards him even more slowly, very cautiously. He had a pike in his hand and prodded Bearos with it sharply. Bearos clenched his jaw tightly shut. Not a sound would escape him.

The Khazâd poked him again.

Nothing.

He shouted something that Bearos did not listen too but he waited until the Khazâd approached and leaned down closely.

Suddenly Bearos shot out a taloned paw and slashed at the Khazâd, seizing him and pulling him down. The Khazâd rolled, unexpectedly agile and roared in anger, leaping back to his feet, he thrust a blade down towards Bearos. It touched his throat. He froze cursing and swearing, hissing and spitting.

'Yield, fiend!' shouted the dwarf. 'Or I will kill you, for I would enjoy seeing your body turn cold and lifeless!'

Other men ran forwards then and though the Khazâd half turned his head, he did not take his beady, cruel eyes from where Bearos lay pinned and bound by the net.

'Bind him in the net. Do not get close to his hands if that is truly what they are. '

The men did as they were bid and though Bearos struggled and writhed and hissed and gnashed his teeth, he was well and truly caught. They lashed the net with more ropes and then slung him over a pole, hoisted him up and carried him like a slaughtered carcass.

'Take him to the Tower of Ecthelion,' ordered one of the Men.

Bearos gnashed his teeth. Beregond! An enemy. The Tower guard captain had always suspected Bearos. Beregond's face was serious and appalled. He stared at Bearos in horror and shuddered when Bearos rested his mad and bulging eyes upon him.

'You think you can keep ME!' shouted Bearos, spittle flying from his lips. 'Too latetoolatetoolate. You will never find Yôzâira,' he giggled and sniggered and yipped. 'Your Elf will be devoured, killed, torn,' he said in the soft sing-song voice that the Elf hated and made him tremble with fear.

The Khazâd came close then and Bearos itched to get his long fingered hands around the thick pulsing neck. 'You will tell me where he is or I will make the rest of your life so miserable you will regret ever having set foot in this city.'

Bearos laughed hysterically. 'Nevernevernever. Notyounotyou.'

The Khazâd leaned his face close, close enough for Bearos to feel his hot breath, like fire, see into his brown eyes, eyes that had seen the deep places of the earth. For a moment, Bearos was frightened. But Khamûl curled about his long-fingered, taloned hand, not in fear but in in resentful hatred and grudging respect. The Khazâd were stone. Rock. Their love of gold could be fanned into jealous rage by the Master's Rings of Stone, but this Khazâd was different. His heart was rooted too firmly in the earth and mountains to be swayed only by gold.

Bearos hissed and spat at the dwarf, his eyes sore and bulging and he felt his sinews crack and stretch beyond what was possible for this corpse. He thrashed about like a snake and snapped his jaws at the guards until one of the Men, cursing and struggling to hold onto the pole, had it wrenched from his hands and Bearos fell to the hard ground on his back with the pole between his feet and hands. He rolled and spun about so the pole was wrenched from the other Man's hands and the pole whacked into their ankles and legs. Other guards tried to seize the ends of the pole and Bearos rolled and shoved himself around so they could not get near him, laughing maniacally. They could not catch him! He spun again and again, spitting, biting, gnashing his teeth and rolled onto his knees with the net tangled around him.

And then suddenly he felt Narya. The pressure in the air bowed him and Narya lashed him into submission so he was crushed into the stone, the earth, head bowed. He saw the feet of the Zigûr and spat, gibbered, and spat again.

Something hit him on the head, hard. As his bulging eyes rolled back in his head and he fell like a stone, he knew somewhere that it was the Khazâd who had done this.

0o0o

Gimli leaned on his axe, satisfied. He felt much better now that he had hit Bearos really hard and seen the unnatural and grotesque face go slack and those bulging, mad eyes closed. Gandalf was breathing hard and wiped his foot clear of spittle, disgusted. He looked first at the unconscious Bearos, still swathed in netting and ropes. Then he quirked an eyebrow at Gimli.

'Just got fed up with all that yammering and stuff,' Gimli shrugged. He did not say how the creature, this Ghoul, disgusted him, made him sick to his stomach. And the thought that it had Legolas, he could not bear.

Gandalf smiled tightly and then turned to Beregond. 'Take this…thing to the Tower of Ecthelion. I think too that it needs to be kept shackled and do not wait until it is awake to do so.'

Beregond nodded and jerked his head towards the unconscious creature. 'Arduin, take six men and guard him… it,' he said, glancing uncertainly at the creature, and Gimli thought that Bearos no longer looked like a Man.

Arduin looked coldly at Bearos and gathered his men around the pile of netting. They tied the creature even more tightly and lashed it once more to the poles, but this time, its head hung down like it was dead, its jaw hung open and its tongue lolled horribly.

'I have laid a spell of binding so it cannot escape,' Gandalf added impatiently. He turned to Beregond briskly and said, 'Beregond, show me where you found the hair and thread, the button. Although I believe the button at least was planted there for you to find. But I want your men to come with Gimli and me and search the tombs for signs that Legolas has been there, or if that ghoul has passed that way. Start with the place the artefact was being kept and spread out from there. Leave no tunnel, no passage unexplored. Check every antechamber, every space, every tomb.'

Beregond instructed his men in the search while Beregond himself led Gimli and Gandalf climbing carefully into the chasm that plunged between the city and the Tombs. It did not take long to find the place Beregond had found the button but in spite of casting Narya wide, Gandalf found nothing. No trace of Legolas, no lingering sense of green-gold like new beech leaves unfurling in sunlight. Gimli watched anxiously, half knowing what Gandalf did and chewing the end of his braids in anxiety. He did not think he could bear it if they did not find Legolas. Or if they found him and were too late. He imagined having to take the message to Thranduil, as they had promised each other. But now he did not even have the little gold oak leaf that hung around Legolas' neck to take as a sign of their friendship.

Gimli looked away across the wild and scrubby landscape towards the Mindolluin, remembering how he had thought he had lost Legolas up there before they left for Mordor, and the fireflies had landed softly on him, fluttered about him. Now he had nothing to show for their friendship at all but memories. And then he told himself that when he found Legolas, he would make sure they honoured all that they had shared. From that moment outside the doors of Rivendell when Gimli had arrived with his father and their troop, and found Legolas standing in pouring rain and they had mistaken him for a servant and laden him down with their wet cloaks. He smiled at the memory and found his eyesight blurred. But he shook himself for being a sentimental and unfaithful fool.

I refuse to believe he is dead, he swore silently to his absent friend. I will find you, he added, and then I will kick you from here to Khazâd-dûm for doing such a foolish thing as to disappear, chasing ghouls on your own and not telling anyone where you were going.

Ah, but that is Legolas, he reminded himself. Impetuous, courageous, and entirely without any sense of self-preservation. He tugged at his beard, then stuck the ends in his mouth again.

They searched the tombs again, torchlight flickering over the cold bronze and marble effigies of the long dead kings. Gimli cast about like Beregond and his Men but it felt like they were searching uselessly. It was like something was slowing their senses, befuddling them. And though Bearos, the Ghoul, was captured, everyone felt the creeping fear and horror of the place.

Slowly Gandalf guided their search back to the antechamber where the Mirror had been kept and Ioralas had been killed.

The darkness seemed deeper here and torchlight cast long shadows on the walls, over the silent effigies of long dead kings. Row after row in the high vaulted chambers, they lay with their swords clasped between their hands and their carved eyes wide open, not in wakefulness against the enemies of Gondor but in horror and fear, Gimli imagined. He felt the edge of that fear creeping amongst the Men so that they clung together a little and were reluctant to move out of the torchlight or away from their comrades.

Suddenly there was a cry and Gimli looked up to see Cendir standing looking down behind one of the silent effigies, his face wracked. As Gimli hurried towards he was hit by the stink of blood and shit and piss. He recoiled at first but the humanity of the stink made his heart sink and he peered fearfully over the top of the effigy where Cendir pointed, afraid of what he might find.

There were bones, newly picked, bits of bloody meat stark on the whiteness.

A terrible pain lanced through Gimli's heart and he heard a low moan escape his own lips. He sank to his knees beside the bones, wanting to gather them up and clasp them to his chest but there was something odd and he saw, with painful relief and then pity, that the bones were far too small to be Legolas. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut tightly; there was hope! There was still hope!

'This is some other poor wretch caught by the Ghoul,' said Gandalf from somewhere behind him and Gimli bit his lip and then slowly rose to his feet. 'Let us bury what is left so he may have some peace,' Gandalf added and he leaned over and his fingers caught a piece of rough cloth, torn and ripped by bloody claws. It was stained with dried blood. Gandalf stared at it for a moment. Then he sighed and looked away, let it fall back over the bloody bones.

Beregond indicated two men to gather up the bones. 'Take them back outside,' said Beregond gently. 'Lay them carefully and we will try to find his kin.' But the men were nervous and reluctant, looking over their shoulders into the darkness. Nevertheless, the bones were gathered and placed reverently onto one of the men's cloaks to carry.

Gimli listened to the Men's muted talk. They were edgy and fearful. The discovery of the bones had unsettled them, he realised. Even though the Ghoul was captured and safely locked in the Tower of Ecthelion, there was something about this place. Something made the darkness intensify, and he was reminded of the strange fog that had swirled about the Square, the lingering oily atmosphere in Aragorn's council chamber before Gandalf had arrived. He felt his blood prickle.

'Tharkûn,' he murmured, slipping into his native tongue. 'There is a feel about this place…it reminds me of something…'

'Yes,' Gandalf replied slowly. 'I feel it too.'

They did not speak it but both felt the lingering sense of evil. It reminded Gimli of the Nazgûl. But they were gone. Sucked into the Void at the Fall of the Morannon.

Beregond's men searched this place carefully then, but they clung together, staying in pairs and then threes. There were signs of the Ghoul everywhere, from scratches where its claws had scrambled over the tombs and seemed to have leapt up the walls higher than the height of a Man. There were streaks of rusty dried blood on the walls and they found more bones. These were all that was left of the poor souls the Ghoul had dragged or chased into this dismal place and the Men found themselves groaning with fear and horror and pity. There were a few that were very small. A child. They tried not to imagine the terror that poor child would have felt. Some of the Men thought they could hear weeping but there was nothing there when they looked. But it made the Men more and more nervous. There was a stink of dried urine where the Ghoul had pissed or defecated over the silent effigies of long-dead kings.

'Gimli, tell me what you hear, what you sense. I feel if Legolas is here, you will be the one to find him.'

Gimli sent Gandalf a sideways look but he said nothing; he knew that Gandalf was well versed in the lore of the Khazâd and would know of the Aglâb-Chetyn, the deep notes of the mountain and stone upon which this city was built. Indeed, Gimli had seen the Gunud-Aglâb on Gandalf's arms and although he would not dream of breaking the silence of taboo that kept these markings as secret as his own name, Gimli was intrigued as to how Gandalf had been blessed by Mahal enough to deserve his own Gunud-Aglâb.

But for now, Legolas was his only concern and Gimli stepped beyond the slow circle of Men searching, holding their torches aloft with breathless fear. He stepped into the dark that closed around him like a cocoon and tried not to gasp for breath. There is air, he reminded himself, as he did in the Deep Mines where the air was sometimes thin.

He moved further away from the Men and their clumsy frightened search, and towards the smoothed and inlaid passages that led off from this high chamber of the oldest Kings. He breathed slowly, so he became attuned to the sounds of the mountain beneath the rock and stone. He listened to the deep notes of water beneath the rock, a plink of one drop that had taken years to form. He listened for the delving of the tombs, how the Men of the early settlement had dug and chiseled without skill, and then learned, and smoothed and shaped… there was something else too….He smoothed his hands over the stone and hummed against it, deep in his throat…more delvings…something blurred and unshaped….He followed the lines of trembling shadows, the stone was fractured, not spilt, not shaped….but it was hard to see where delving ended and magic….Yes. Magic. Darkness…

He frowned and followed one narrow passageway that was rougher, not delved. His hand trailed along the stone, fingertips feeling for cracks and splits that were unnatural.

'Legolas!' he cried. And again, making his voice deep, deeper so it carried far, like the mythical leviathans of the Sea. 'Legolas!'

For a moment he swore he heard a cry and lifted his head excitedly. Then he hurried forwards, his hands trailing the surface of the stone. 'Legolas!' he cried again but he stumbled suddenly, and the air blurred around him. His voice was swallowed by the darkness and he felt intensely afraid that he was going too far the wrong way, that Legolas was in terrible danger and if he did not find him soon, he would lose him forever. That way, surely? The way back?

He rushed back along the passageway, retracing his steps unerringly in the darkness that seemed to close behind him. He almost ran back towards the chamber where Beregond kept the torches lit and spaced widely to banish the dark as best he could.

He burst into the chamber, and the torchlights swivelled towards him like the eyes of a beast.

Gimli halted suddenly. Tharkûn hurried towards him hopefully. But suddenly Gimli faltered; he had been so sure that Legolas was this way. But now, he was less certain. It was like reaching for a drowning man's fingers and they kept slipping away from his grasp.

Gandalf saw his hesitation and sighed, then approached, wearily and anxious. 'I fear that if the Ghoul was keeping Legolas here, he is hidden by sorcery,' said the Wizard. 'There is something, I feel it, but though I sense something, it keeps slipping away from me.'

'I thought I heard something. I thought he was here…' Gimli paused and felt hope slip away. Gandalf held his gaze for a moment and his eyes were full of sorrow.

'I will go and question the Ghoul,' Gandalf said, his face grim.

'Let me question it,' Gimli said darkly. 'It will be quicker.'

Gandalf gave a sad smile. 'No, it will not. I will press him as I did Sméagol. I promise you, Gimli, if there is anything to be found, I will find it.'

0o0o

Legolas was exhausted. Dying. He knew.

He could not lift his head but he felt the viscous stickiness of the Glass pressed against his skin, cocooning him, clasped like wet-silk about his dying body and the shadows leered, clambered over each other in their eagerness for him, pressed around him, suckling his blood. He felt his limbs twitch as the blood left his body. He was ice-cold.

He thought how his father would grieve, and worried that he might indeed fade from grief. For when Thranduil thought he had lost Thalos in the dragonfire of Esgaroth, his face had been grey with worry, and his eyes full of anxious despair. And what of Thalos himself, and Laersul? Legolas felt a last tear sliding down his face. He thought how he would never see them again, his strong, brave brothers. He would never hear Galion's affectionate scolding again. There was Anglach too. He wondered dully whether Anglach had gone to Mandos or if he was a houseless spirit guarding the Woodland Realm, waiting for Legolas' return as did his father. None of them would ever know Legolas' fate. None would ever know that Legolas' fëa would be devoured, like Rhawion's.

And what of Elrohir?

What fate awaited him now?

Head bowed, Legolas remembered the dream he had had after the Battle of the Morannon, when the Black Threads had infected every vein in Legolas' body and that Elrohir had taken it into himself to save him. Then, Legolas had dreamed he was running on the hard sand, the Sea curling white foam on the shore beside him as he ran. Ahead of him, too far to reach, Elrohir stood thigh deep in the Sea looking out beyond the horizon. Legolas was running and running and calling…And then suddenly Elrohir had gone and Legolas could no longer see him, could not hear his Song for he had slipped over the Edge of the World and was treading the Path of Men that led beyond the bounds of the world.

Legolas' breaths were short, shallow little pinches of agony now. And then he heard it; a deep cry, far away but still beneath this stone. He lifted his head heavily and listened.

Was that Gimli?

An answering cry broke from his lips but he did not have the energy to cry out again, and besides, it was probably an illusion.

The Nazgûl drew back breathlessly, listening as did he.

He wondered if they feared Gimli, but then he realised it was because they thought Elrohir might have also come. Elrohir would listen for Legolas' Song, and he would explode every rock, batter through the stone of the city itself to reach him.

His heart gave a weak thump as if it tried to make him strong for the moment that Elrohir was there and listening. He shifted in his chains, slowly, painfully, trying to lift his head to cry out, to send his Song arcing like a symphony, calling to his beloved.

But then he hesitated.

The Nazgûl wanted Elrohir. They wanted him so that they could somehow possess him, and use him to break free from the Glass…Bearos had one of the Rings.

This was a trap. And Legolas was the bait.

No. He would not allow it.

He would not allow Elrohir to find him, glorious as it would be, for that is what Angmar wanted. He could see the clever cunning gaze fastened on him. The skull beneath the iron crown grinned.

 _No. You already have me,_ Legolas threw out at the Nazgûl. _But you **will not** have him._

And so he drew into himself and silenced his own Song, made it soft and quiet, dimmed the green-gold light with all that was left of his strength so that Elrohir would not find him and though it meant that Elrohir might give up all hope and take the Paths of Men, he would remain Elrohir. He would not be devoured by the Dark. That would be Legolas' fate alone. He took a little breath that sounded like a sob and Angmar was close, his skeletal face peered into Legolas'. There was a cacophony of screeching, like fingernails on boards and Legolas shrank away.

 _Even now you seek to defy us!_

Angmar's clawed fingers pressed against the Glass and pushed into Legolas' flesh. Cruelly he dug and twisted and pinched and dug deeply.

 _We will have your heart._

Legolas cried aloud once and then closed his mouth firmly, resolved that he alone would know the pain. He would endure silently until death, until his soul was devoured, like the souls of those who were made into Orcs, he thought in despair. And Elrohir would never know.

 _We will have your soul._

None would ever even know where he died. He grieved for Gimli too and wished he had said goodbye. His spirit would be devoured by the Nazgûl. He did not know how.

 _As your spirit leaves your body, we will trap it, consume it, devour it, suck it dry like we suck your body dry._

He writhed in anguish as the Nazgûl drew close once more and the clawed hands pressed and dug and tore into him.

0o0o

Bearos found himself bound in chains driven into the stone wall of the Tower of Ecthelion, much as he had left Yôzâira. It struck him as funny and he giggled but he was anxious too. Where was Ravéyön? He should be here? If he did not arrive soon, Bearos' body might desiccate, might fall into ash before he could give his message….

No. Not whilst I am here. Khamûl's voice twined about him comfortingly, kept him warm, pushed the Elf's blood through his veins, squeezed his heart so it beat. But he needed to conserve his energy too and so he stood, staring emptily, his jaw dropped onto his chest, hands limp by his sides. It was surprising that he remained on his feet.

There was a sound outside his chamber and he heard the high whining voices of the Halflings! His skin prickled and he felt a gag of revulsion at the very idea of them. They had stolen Ash Nazg and destroyed a thing more beautiful, more precious than ever their weak and wicked minds could even contemplate. How perfect! How pure Ash Nazg had been! What gold! But His perfection was lost, melted into the hot molten stone at the heart of the earth.

The door to the cell opened then and Bearos shrank back from the blaze of white light that dazzled and blinded him. Ólorin came, cutting and slashing at him, pressing him, seeking to prise open his thoughts with Narya. Khamûl slunk low, hid in the clouded and emptied mind of Bearos that remembered blood and bones, dwelled on how he had chased his prey and sucked them dry of blood, cracked their sinews and sucked the marrow from their bones.

 _Tell me where is the Elf?_ Ólorin pressed down upon him. Blinding white pain, crushing fire and anguish in his desiccated flesh. He screamed and gibbered, like a stake was through his belly, like he had been impaled upon a lance and the pain was unbearable, but Khamûl had gone, shrunk back into itself and Bearos could not speak. He would not anyway. He laughed in spite of the pain, and spat in the Zigûr's face.

Hours passed. Anguish. Agony. Crushing pain. But still Bearos did not speak. He did not think. He did not give anything. Khamûl filled his head with memories of those he had slaughtered. Remembered the pursuit of the last Man, the first child, the woman who had screamed and screamed until he silenced her with long fingers grasping her throat, pressing dripping claws into the thin skin of her neck and ripping out her vocal cords.

He felt Ólorin recoil at the child, and revealed more and more horrific images. The child's whimpering as Bearos stalked it, creeping almost silently up behind where it hid, cowering in the shadows.

'Your foulness will not deter me,' declared Ólorin and Narya brightened as he spoke and then Ólorin went back in and pressed down on Bearos again. Bearos laughed in Ólorin's face and spat.

'Is this what you want to see?'

And he changed the child's face to the Elf's, showed Ólorin how the Elf had escaped and Bearos pursued him, dragged him back by his hair and threw him down.

After that, Ólorin was brutal. Bearos did not laugh any longer, he stood, half hanging as the Elf did, immobile, inanimate, senseless.

0o0o


	36. Chapter 36 Ravéyön

Special mention for Bluehair, who has been leaving lovely comments on Through a Glass.

Also Nako, who is going to love this!

Just a few points about the medical terminology here…

None of the operations depicted should be tried at home! For a start, modern medicine is far more advanced and more likely to be successful. This uses basic operations but I changed it so it is more medieval or uses a different science that elves have developed over the many centuries of their lives.

quiss- a wide bored needle; it is tubular.

rotä- a catheter-like instrument, but since it is made by Elves and is Elrond's invention, it is very superior! It is used to insert into a bladder, a cavity, etc. and it allows liquid or air to escape from the body.

Crystôl- this was used by Elrohir on Legolas in More Dangerous. It was violent but effective on that occasion.

 **Chapter 36: Ravéyön**

Bearos knew his body was being punished, that his wrists were raw and bleeding, that his body had been kicked and pummeled by those who had captured him, but he no longer felt anything like he would describe as pain. Khamûl had driven him, stretched his body and pulled it, twisted it beyond imagining and so the pain and discomfort inflicted upon him by his gaolers was as nothing. If they had twisted his sinews, or stretched him upon a rack, he had already been racked so his limbs were stretched, joints twisted and sinews cracked beyond anything humanly possible; if they had poured fire over him, he had already burned, incinerated to ash in the heat of Khamûl. If they had inflicted horrors upon him, he had already seen, done more than they could imagine.

Theirs were pin pricks compared with what he had suffered from Khamûl; soft dreams, light pinches. Nothing.

But when Ólorin came, he stood in front of Bearos and unveiled Narya. Then, it was different. The Zigûr wielded Narya like a knife, incising mercilessly, cutting deeply so Bearos writhed and gibbered. Ólorin surgically sliced open Bearos' memories and examined each one for the location of the Elf. Of course, Khamûl had buried that deeply, hidden it beneath the things that Bearos did not want to remember. Ólorin wrenched one memory from Bearos, the mountains with their clear mineral skies, the pebbly scree sliding under feet, the goats bleating and running towards him to be fed; beneath that he found hidden the memory of the pitiful bloody bundle that was the stillborn baby, born in the hard Winter when there was not enough wood to keep them warm or food to feed his pregnant wife.

Bearos no longer cared. And Ólorin did not. For an hour, and another hour, he pressed him, relentlessly excoriating the images in Bearos' wriggling, writhing brain.

'I will never tell you!' Bearos hissed. 'Never!'

And Ólorin came in again, wrenching one memory after another. But to no avail. Bearos would not tell him where the Elf was. Yôzâira. The Gift. For he belonged to Ravéyön, and Khamûl said that Bearos was to make sure that Ravéyön had him.

He was hungry now, and exhausted. Not only by Ólorin's relentless interrogation, but from Khamûl's demanding possession of his body. Bearos wanted, needed blood. He had lost track of how long he had been held here and he was starving, hungry, needed to feed. The Elf's blood had sustained him but he had used a great deal of power in the last few days and he was depleted now, as was Khamûl.

'You will stay here until the end of your miserable days!' Ólorin cried in frustration and anger.

And then Bearos felt it. His fingers prickled and he felt the hair on his neck rise like a storm was coming, like lightning was about to strike. The air became heavier and heavier and the pressure took his breath away. If he strained his neck and looked beyond Ólorin's dazzling brightness, he could just see the sky from the high window, it was edged with crimson and he knew! He knew. Ravéyön was here. He could smell the lightning in the air. He swelled with lust and desire, let his head roll back and lasciviously his tongue lolled from his mouth, stretched and licked his wide mouth.

'I will have you, Ravéyön. I will have you. And your Yôzâira,' he muttered and his jaw clacked and his red tongue lolled from his mouth again and he jerked his hips in horrible parody of sex.

 _We will all have you._

Ólorin's disgust at Bearos' antics was evident on his face but Bearos laughed harshly, his throat parched and raw. 'You have no idea, old Man,' he sneered. 'No idea at all what is coming! You think you have won, but this has only just started.'

The mental blow from Narya snapped his head back and made his eyes bulge so they felt like they were being forced from their sockets and this time he shrieked. But he thought he should make it blood-curdling so he made it inhuman and let it go on and on and on, even though Ólorin simply stood there and watched contemptuously as Bearos writhed and screamed and screamed and gibbered. Then he spat a great glob of phlegm towards the Zigûr, who recoiled in disgust.

After a few minutes, during which Bearos shrieked as if he were being dissected alive and gibbered as if in agony and terror, there was a cautious tap on the door. Bearos let his jaw clack and gibber. 'They will come now, thinking you have killed me,' he gloated.

'Be thankful that I have not,' snapped the Zigûr. 'Not yet anyway.'

'If you do, you will never find the Yôzâira,' Bearos hissed.

'You have said that word many times,' Ólorin observed, wiping away the spittle from his robes. 'This is your name for Legolas. Why? Why is he the Gift of Longing? Whose longing? And to whom is he a gift?'

But Bearos would not speak again and when Ólorin approached him, holding Narya before him, Bearos gave another screech, long and blood-curdling.

At last the prison door opened. A Man stood there, craning his neck to see.

'We heard a scream, my lord,' the Man said hesitantly. He glanced nervously at the Zigûr and Bearos groaned and rolled his head as if he were in agony.

'Stop, please. Make him stop,' he moaned, his eyes bright with wickedness and fastened upon the Zigûr.

The Man looked uncomfortable and hesitated and, in that moment, Khamûl eased from Bearos' hand, stretched a finger of suggestion into the Man's thoughts, eased into his ears, his mouth, his nostrils and filled his head with suggestion.

'My lord,' the Man said slowly, his eyes suddenly vacant. 'I will guard this beast while you rest if you wish. The King asks for you.' The Zigûr was busily wiping more phlegm that Bearos had spat upon his pristine white robes, and to Bearos' delight, he did not notice the Man's vacant eyes.

The Zigûr sighed heavily and glared at Bearos. Bearos let his eyes close and head roll so it hung down like he was unconscious, but he watched carefully from beneath his lids and listened intently. The Zigûr paused for a moment as if considering the Man's words. 'The King is awake?'

The Man nodded dully as Khamûl made him.

'Very well. Then guard this fiend, but I warn you, stay outside and do not speak to him or go in there.' Ólorin guided the Man to the door and then stepped outside, closing the door firmly behind him.

Bearos waited for a moment and then sent Khamûl out again, searching for the Man and bringing him back to the cell. The Man stood there for a moment in the doorway, hesitating and Bearos felt him fighting Khamûl.

'Fool,' he said softly. 'You will not win. Come as He instructs you.'

Closing the door behind him then, the Man stepped forwards, eyes vacant and face slack. His hands went to the shackles but he did not have the keys and so Bearos forced him to come closer and closer. He stood silent and still as Bearos curled his lips back from his long teeth into a snarling grin and then opened his jaws like a serpent, tilting his head and striking at the Man's throat. He seized it in his wide, fanged mouth and tore, ripped, gnashed so the blood spurted over his face and lips and mouth and he leaned far forwards in his chains and kept the Man upright in his jaws, sucking and swallowing as fast as he could until there was a clattering, shouting upon the stairs beyond the door and he sucked with greater intensity, hard, draining as much blood as he could.

0o0o

Elrohir felt Barakhir faltering, his gait had become uneven and Elrohir knew he had galloped his faithful horse to lameness and he could go on only a little longer. Barakhir was not much better, and though he said nothing, Elladan's face was grim and mouth set.

But the gates of Minas Tirith were ahead of them and they flew over the dusty road in spite of the horses' exhaustion. Elrohir's fear for Aragorn was fanned by his fear too for Legolas. The dread he had been feeling ever since they set foot in Gondor had grown upon him, but when Arwen had collapsed with a cry for Aragorn, Elrohir had not felt the same thrust of agony in his heart. He felt nothing.

Is this because Arwen's bond with Aragorn is deeper, he pondered, or is it because Legolas is in no danger? Or worse…but he would not think on that. He could not bear it. His heart surged with fear that Legolas might be hurt and he threw his senses out, trying to find the threads of green-gold that danced lightly through the air. There was nothing.

Let him not be dead, let him not be dead! He could not bear it if he was. Surely he would know?

They galloped onwards, his brother nearby. Urging Barakhir onwards, stretching the horse out at a flat gallop for miles upon miles until he knew that no other horse could have continued at that pace.

It was late by the time they reached the city gates. A cart was trundling ahead of them, but Elrohir urged his horse on and Barakhir cantered wearily around the cart and in front of it, dangerously close to the shafts of the wagon, and almost battering the guards who stood at the gates. They had no choice but to leap aside and Elrohir charged up the steep streets from one level to the next, feeling his tired horse stumble. Behind him by some way, Baraghur and Elladan followed, as ever.

Legolas stretched in chains, firelight flickering, licking his skin…

Elrohir shoved it away. I am not that man anymore, he told himself. I do not want that!

But those dreadful desires, those images of Legolas pulled taut by chains, firelight on his long, lean body, Elrohir's own hands smearing blood over the pale, inked skin haunted him, drenched him in guilt and love.

 _This is not who I am. Not anymore._

He could not think how hurting Legolas could ever have been something he wanted. He shoved away those images, he had not wanted that for a long time. Instead he craved the touch of Legolas, submitting to his every will. Every cell in his body thrilled at the thought that in moments, he could have Legolas again in his arms. He kept looking upwards, half expecting to see the Woodelf dancing lightly along the high walls of the city, sunlight glinting on his hair so that even from this distance, Elrohir might see him.

Higher up, from the fourth level onwards, the streets were very quiet and it seemed eerily empty. One or two people were out but they were fearful and scuttled out of Elrohir's way. He turned his head and looked down the narrow street to the House of the Fellowship as they passed, every bit of him yearning to clatter his way down to the house, throw himself from Barakhir and burst into the house, shouting for Legolas and taking him in his arms. But if Aragorn was in mortal danger, then Legolas would be at his side. Unless he was also in danger. But at least he would have news of both if he went straight to the palace, he reasoned.

But the sixth level gates were heavily guarded and as Elrohir approached, there were many guards milling about and when they saw two riders, they turned and watched suspiciously. Two guards barred the way.

'Hold in the name of the King!' shouted one, leaping up and trying to seize Barakhir's reins and if the horse had not been so exhausted, he would have reared up and evaded the Man. As it was, the horse could only shy and Elrohir shouted to the Man to desist.

'I am the King's brother! I come to his aid and you will not stand in my way!' His eyes flashed and the Man took several steps back.

'Apologies my lord, I did not see that it was you.' The Man looked familiar but Elrohir saw behind him that it looked as though the city was still besieged. A cart was shoved to one side of the gate but it looked blackened as if it had been on fire. Behind him were men leaning against the wall or sitting on a bench outside a house but they looked weary and some had bloody bandages around heads or arms, and two men were limping, leaning on each other as they made their way to the Gatehouse.

'What has happened here?' Elladan called, his beautiful face concerned as pulled up alongside.

'There has been an attempted rebellion, my lords.'

Elladan gasped and the Man continued, 'My lords, we do not know what is happening in the city above but there have been strange goings on since you left. Faramir was arrested and Beregond dismissed... A new captain put in his place - a brutal, greedy man. He sent troops out into the city to keep the people down. They have been demanding money from merchants and pestering the womenfolk. Captain Beregond has sent me to restore order with the Tower Guard, to put back the rule of law. My lords, my name is Cendir.'

Elrohir remembered him now but he could not believe what he was hearing. Faramir arrested and Beregond dismissed? What had Aragorn been thinking? 'So the King has restored Beregond?' Elladan asked anxiously.

Elrohir looked about them while Elladan asked his questions. This must be why Arwen felt that dreadful pain; Aragorn had been beguiled if these were his actions.

'Beregond has been restored,' Cendir replied, a little evasively, thought Elrohir. 'But it seems that the King's advisor, a Man called Bearos, has been plotting all this time. He is the one who persuaded the King to dismiss Beregond. My lords,' Cendir came close now and lowered his voice so that Elladan leaned down to hear but Elrohir could hear him anyway.

'My lord. Bearos has attacked the King. He stabbed him.' Cendir looked around anxiously, it was clear that they were keeping this news secret, to keep the city calm.

'What?' demanded Elladan, aghast. 'Aragorn has been stabbed?' He looked at Elrohir, who was already turning the exhausted Barakhir and urging him onwards. 'We must go to him!'

Cendir was still speaking, calling to them, shouting something as they clattered away and so they did not hear the rest of his news, nor did they see him shaking his head in a gesture of despair.

If they had been in haste before, it was nothing to how they rode now. Barakhir almost stumbled once or twice but did not give up and his great muscles heaved with the effort as Elrohir charged up the last steep slopes and surged into the Square of the Seventh level. Throwing himself from his sweating, blowing horse, Elrohir threw his reins to a groom who came running at the sound of horses clattering up the cobbled streets. Elladan was not far behind him and did likewise, and they ignored the disapproving looks they got from the grooms for the state of the two horses.

The Gatehouse of the Palace was empty, the doors thrown wide and a bench overturned. Elrohir glanced at Elladan in concern and they swept into the Palace. There were clusters of men, and a few ladies gathered in anxious little knots about the great hall.

'Where is the king?' Elladan demanded loudly.

A short fat clerk came hurrying over, wringing his hands and with such worry on his face that Elrohir's heart sank.

'My lords, your timing could not be better. Come with me. I will take you to him.'

The clerk's strides were considerably shorter than the tall Elves and he trotted alongside them talking quickly as they went. 'The healers have done what they can but frankly, my lords, there has been so much going on I would not be surprised if a vestige of sorcery remained within the King. Mithrandir has been with the prisoner, of course, trying to wheedle information out him but the fiend is tight as a clam and will not speak.'

'What happened? He was stabbed with a blade?' Elrohir asked, wanting to ascertain that Cendir had the truth of it, and when the clerk nodded, he fired more questions. 'Has the bleeding stopped?'

The clerk frowned a little and his face fell. 'No, the bleeding will not stop. It is our greatest concern that the King is so weakened with blood loss that he cannot fight any infection.'

Elladan glanced down at the clerk. 'Is there any fluid leaking from the wound? Just blood?'

'There was something else.' The clerk hurried alongside them, panting. 'It smelled awful. The healers say it is black bile. But well, I do not know medicine I am afraid, my lords. But I can find out anything you ask of me.' He paused outside Aragon's chamber, and his face softened. 'Please help him, my lords,' he said simply and Elrohir looked more closely at him for he clearly loved Aragorn.

'Your name, sir clerk?'

'Aradhel, my lords.' He smiled then, a wide generous smile and his eyes were clear and bright and intelligent. He licked his lips and glanced at Elrohir. 'I have been researching this, my lords and I think…well, the healers do not agree, but it does sound as if it might be something like the Black Breath. The symptoms are very similar and that Bearos was certainly involved in sorcery.'

Elrohir stared; that was what Cendir had said: that Bearos, the strange Man from the mountains, had been plotting to assassinate Aragorn. But Legolas had always distrusted the Man. How had he allowed this Bearos to get so close? Elrohir opened his mouth to ask about Legolas but Elladan spoke first.

'But the Black Breath was a weapon of the Nazgûl, and they are gone. You are not suggesting that this Bearos has somehow obtained the sorcery of the Nazgûl?'

Aradhel shrugged. 'I am only a lowly clerk my lords. I am sure you know better than I. I just thought it worth the mention…' But he hesitated as if he would say more but then stopped. 'Please. Do not delay on my account. I think only you can heal him now.' He looked like he might say more but then he closed his mouth firmly.

Elrohir gripped Elladan's arm. 'The Nazgûl are gone,' he murmured in alarm. 'How can this be? Has this Bearos discovered their secrets?'

'I do not know, brother…What of the Mirror? Remember Phellanthir.'

'Please, my lords. The king is very sick,' Aradhel urged them, pulled temerously on Elrohir's arm but he did not shake him off. 'I fear he may die.'

Elrohir stared at him in shock for a moment and then urgently threw open the doors to Aragorn's chamber. A fragrance of athelas filled the air as they entered.

The room was dimmed and the drapes pulled close. A number of healers, male and female and robed in soft-brown as was their custom, huddled around the bed. There was no Legolas, but there were no Hobbits or Dwarf either. Great bunches of the golden flowers of the athelas plant were steeping in bowls around the room and it was these that scented the air. Since the War, they had grown it in abundance in the Healing Gardens.

'Thank Illuvatar that you are here!' exclaimed one of the healers in relief, and hurried towards them, hands outstretched in appeal. He seemed to have authority here but Elrohir did not know him. As if he knew Elrohir's thought, the Man inclined his head respectfully and said, 'Hallas, my lord.'

Elrohir nodded briefly. 'Do you know where is the King's friend, Legolas?' he asked Hallas. The Man blinked and looked away for a moment as if thinking. 'I thought he would be here, with the King,' Elrohir explained.

'I know he is dear to you, my lord,' Hallas said hesitantly so that Elrohir thought the Man knew just how close he and Legolas were. He did not care. He just wanted news of Legolas. Hallas seemed nervous for a moment and glanced over to Aragorn's bed. Then, as if he had decided something, the healer said more firmly, 'I believe the Lords Gimli and Mithrandir are recently returned from Umbar. The King's friends have been to meet them I think.' Elrohir did not know why Gimli and Gandalf would have gone to Umbar. It seemed a strange thing to do with civil unrest in the city and Aragorn injured by an assassin's knife. 'I would imagine he is with them,' Hallas continued. He wiped his mouth nervously and looked away. 'Please, my lords, the King. He is very sick.' His eyes skipped away from the weight of Elrohir's gaze but Elrohir knew that some Men found an elven gaze too much to bear and because he spoke of Legolas, he knew his gaze might be heavy.

Instead he nodded, the breath tight in his chest at the thought that Aragorn was so sick.

The healer looked anxiously towards the big canopied bed. 'His breathing is very harsh and he has lost so much blood, my lords. I do not think he can recover.' He clasped their hands in distress and suddenly Elrohir knew that this was very, very serious; if they were to keep their little brother, whom he loved, they would have to save his life now. 'Please. Do what you can. If he does not survive, there will be civil war.' Hallas' eyes were upon them now, pleading though he did not need to for both the sons of Elrond would have given their own lives for Aragorn.

When he saw Aragorn, Elrohir was shocked; his face was very pale, his eyes wide open, staring unseeing and strangely unfocused. He did not seem able to see anyone and when Elrohir reached and took his hand, he clung to it as if it were a lifeline. Sweat gleamed on his face and his hair was damp.

Elladan immediately knelt beside Aragorn and felt his head, his neck, his wrist. 'His pulse is very weak,' he murmured to Elrohir anxiously. 'Almost not there.' He leaned in and watched Aragorn's chest rise and fall erratically. They exchanged a look. They were indeed, almost too late.

Elrohir lifted the corner of the sheet from Aragorn's body and looked at the bandage around his abdomen. It was already heavily blotched with blood but something else too. Dark stains spotted the bandage and he peered closer, leaned close and sniffed. The stink of putrescence filled his nostrils and he seized some surgical shears that were on a table nearby with other gleaming steel implements. Quickly, he snipped away at the bandages and pulled them away, casting them aside angrily for the dressings were already soaked in blood.

The wound in Aragorn's chest was small, and not near enough the heart to kill, but it leaked copious amounts of blood mixed with something else. 'The blade was poisoned,' Elrohir said briefly and Elladan leaned over to see what his brother was seeing. Elrohir lightly pressed down on the edge of the wound. 'See?' A slight press to the skin pushed blood first but then a slide of black liquid bubbled beneath the blood. 'This is stopping the blood from coagulating. It will keep bleeding until he dies.' He glanced around the room, saw the bucket with bloody, soaked bandages, and swallowed. This was Aragorn's blood, he thought, and remembered Arwen's cry of anguish. Would they lose her too, he thought blindly? She had said she would follow.

'We have been using everything we know that coagulates the blood. Nothing stops it,' Hallas said hopelessly.

Elladan said nothing but rested his hand upon Aragorn's forehead and closed his own eyes. Elrohir felt how Elladan's calm blue spread over their little brother's awareness, like moonlight on still pools and for a moment, Aragorn calmed and his breathing eased.

'Have you used Crystôl?' Elrohir asked the healer but he glanced at Elladan as if waiting for protest but there was none. Not this time*.

The Man, Hallas shook his head. 'I do not know Crystôl, my lord, although the King has spoken of it.' He glanced anxiously at Elladan, who said nothing but still knelt beside Aragorn, his hand over his forehead. Hallas gave Elrohir a studied look. 'The King was very insistent that it should not be used except in the direst need.'

Elrohir returned his look irritably and said impatiently, 'Do you not think this is the direst need? Or is there some cure you have not yet tried?'

Hallas looked abashed and shook his head. 'No my lord. We have tried everything. Please…' He stood aside in acquiescence.

Elladan shot a quick annoyed look at Elrohir. 'Crystôl is the most efficient medicine for this. It accelerates coagulation and fights the toxins,' he told the gathered healers reassuringly. 'It must be used sparingly and only in the correct doses and on the correct patients,' he instructed carefully. 'It can have an oppositional effect also if mixed with the wrong drugs.'

Elrohir barely listened. Instead, he rummaged quickly in the pack that he and Elladan always carried with them. His hand cupped a roll of velvet which contained the fine silver and mithril surgical instruments he always carried now, and the suede pouch in which the small, precious bottle was kept. Carefully, he took it from its wrapping for they only had the one vial and it would barely be enough for what he had in mind. He placed it on the table beside other delicate glass vials, each one filled with jewel-coloured liquids, amber ortire, emerald sere-vanda, and golden tincture of athelas. There were a number of small glass dishes for mixing, a mortar and pestle, and delicate glass cups.

Elladan looked up at Elrohir. 'We need it straight into his bloodstream.'

Elrohir nodded and began setting up the cups, the glass vials, swabs, swiftly and with a sense of great urgency now. He glanced at Aragorn's deathly white face, at the bandages that were already soaked.

'Crystôl strengthens the net of cells that make blood red,' Elladan explained quickly to the healers who were busying themselves now with stoking a small fire for sterilizing, another was pouring Ortire into two bowls for further sterilizing and washing hands, but Elrohir was hearing Elrond's patient voice in his own head as Elladan spoke, instructing him the preparation and the use of Crystôl, its dangers.

Elrohir poured one, two, five drops of Crystôl very carefully into a cup with one measure of the emerald sere-vanda, that would calm Aragorn and help him to sleep while the Crystôl took effect. It was kinder to spare him the dreams and hallucinations. Almost unconsciously, he picked up the explanation from Elladan, repeating Elrond's words from that lesson long ago. 'Crystôl is made from plant extracts and chemically altered to enhance its coagulating properties,' he said casually and swirled the Crystôl three times through the emerald sere-vanda, watching the streaks of deep blue-black of the Crystôl blend with the sere-vanda so it became a bruised purple, the colour of nightshade from which it was partly derived. He lifted the glass to the light to judge the strength of the drug. Satisfied, he turned to Elladan and nodded.

'We have used Agrimony to try to stop the bleeding,' piped up one of the healers and Elrohir turned to him, his youthful face anxious to please, awed, worshipping. Encouraged when Elrohir did not silence him, he went on enthusiastically, 'It has had limited success but the heaviest bleeding has reduced, my lord.'

Elrohir pushed away the thought that the copious bleeding he saw now was less than it had been before they arrived, and nodded briefly. They had arrived only in the nick of time. An hour later and it may have been too late.

'Has the poison travelled further than the wound?' he asked briskly and the healers shook their heads.

'No, lord. It is strange,' Hallas answered, cutting the younger Man a quick look that made him look away, abashed. 'It lingers just where the knife cut him. We cannot see how he has not recovered and fear that sorcery keeps him here, on the edge of death.'

'Then if that is the case, we will inject the Crystôl,' Elrohir told Hallas, 'using a rotä for you do not have what we need.' He held up the hollow tube with a mechanism that pushed liquid into a bloodstream, or could equally, extract.

'We will draw the toxins by cupping. It will hasten the Crystôl to the site of the wound. Let us inject it just here,' He pressed a finger on the hot skin of his brother and carefully observed how the skin did not fill again but the indentation of his finger remained and the skin was white where he had pressed. He frowned and the Healer leaned over curiously.

Elrohir glanced at Elladan. His brother's clear grey eyes met his, concerned. It seemed that the poison was spreading albeit very slowly, though the healers had not known it. Without speaking, Elrohir quickly gestured to one of the healers to rub some amber ortire over the skin first to numb it while another assisted Elladan as he lay out glass cups as speedily as he could, filling them with the grey wool that would be used to help draw the poison. There was absolute silence in the room now but for the clink of glass but a sense of urgency pervaded.

Elrohir took the bottle of Crystôl mixed with sere-vanda and plunged the hollow needle into it and drew the purple fluid up into its tube. Then he leaned over Aragorn's chest where the Ortire had been applied and searched with his own fingers until he found the artery he was looking for, and jabbed the rotä into the flesh. The needle sank in and he carefully pushed the Crystôl into Aragorn's bloodstream. There was a quiet collective gasp from the watching healers because he had used an artery and not a vein, but none dared challenge him. Quickly he swabbed the site of the wound again and pressed hard over the puncture wound to stop any bleeding. But there was something else beneath his fingers and he pressed again, this time, letting his healing senses uncurl and sink down through his own skin and into Aragorn.

There. A stream of darkness coiled through the blood, tightening its hold over the vascular bundles beneath the skin.

'It is here,' he murmured to Elladan and tapped a point above the wound. 'It makes its way towards his heart.'

Elladan nodded briefly. He held out his hand into which Hallas put one of the small glass cups. Inside the glass, the wool burned brightly and as Elladan took it, he half closed his eyes and the flame went from orange to blue. Swiftly Elladan clamped the glass cup straight over the wound. Aragorn cried out and tried to sit up but Elrohir held him and shushed him, soothing him with soft elven words and stroked his forehead with a cloth handed to him, soaked in athelas and comfrey.

Around him the healers were busy, heating more cups, and passing them to Elladan so that as soon as one cup lost its heat, another was ready. Aragorn's skin was soon marked with circles of red, inflamed skin where the cups had burned. Each time Elladan threw the burned wool into the fire, the flames turned black for an instant and writhed like black worms, and were gone.

Elrohir gave the cloth to one of the young healers and turned away. He flipped open the small roll of velvet which he had drawn from his satchel. Within gleamed a number of tiny knives and small metal implements. He handed a small silver lancet to a young woman who took it silently and carefully washed it in ortire. Elrohir washed his own hands in the other bowl.

When he was ready, she carefully placed the lancet in Elrohir's hand. He held the lancet poised a few inches above the wound where he had found the poison, and then suddenly and swiftly, punctured a deep incision into the skin and with his forefinger and thumb pinched the cut open. Blood oozed from the cut, dark crimson, and laced with a watery black liquid that poured from the wound. Elrohir slapped a glass cup quickly over the incision and the wool burned bright this time, blue, then crimson and then quickly blackened. As he finished with one cup, Hallas was there with another so Elrohir worked on cupping the wound he had made himself, drawing the poison from above the wound, and Elladan worked on the wound itself.

Elrohir had just held out a hand for another cup when the door opened and Gimli hurried in, followed closely by Gandalf. Elrohir glanced up and seeing them, looked beyond them, expecting to see Legolas. When he was not there, Elrohir frowned slightly for he still had no sense of his beloved, still did not hear the song like a running stream over mossy pools and through the beech leaves. Surely he would be with Gimli if the Dwarf had just returned from Umbar and they had not seen each other for a while? Surely if Gimli was here to see how Aragorn was, Legolas would be there too, standing right behind him, peering into the room with his bright, leaf-green eyes?

Elrohir continued holding the cup over the wound, but his attention was no longer entirely focused on Aragorn. Elladan was swabbing the wound for the cupping had done its job and now a thick black stream oozed from the wound. Aragorn thrashed his head from side to side and moaned. But suddenly his breath bubbled in his throat and Elrohir's attention was torn back to his brother.

'Is that pressure building up?' he asked Elladan anxiously. 'Is there blood near the lung? Or air?' He glanced up at the healers briefly, but it was clear they did not have enough knowledge to help.

Elladan's eyes were wide with fear. 'Listen to his breath,' he said in alarm for Aragorn's chest heaved and his breath came in great drowning gulps. Elrohir probed Aragorn's muscled chest with his fingers, listening, watching, feeling for the telltale signs. He watched Aragorn closely.

'Yes, maybe. Pressure in the pleural cavity?' he murmured to Elladan urgently. Elladan immediately pressed the swabs to the wound, indicating to one of the healers to take over, and rose swiftly to his feet, pulling the small roll of velvet towards himself so the silver and mithril surgical instruments clinked. Elrohir probed the area urgently, trying to find the swelling, guessing at the cause. He could hear his brother's fingers picking through the silver instruments, muttering anxiously. And then he stopped and Elrohir heard Elladan say softly to Gimli, 'Is Legolas near? We could do with his help. He can reach Aragorn too.'

But the silence that followed was so heavy, so awkward that Elrohir paused and glanced up.

Gimli was looking at Elladan with an expression of loss and grief and hope. Gandalf had bowed his head as if in despair but just then Pippin appeared in the doorway, and seeing Elladan and Elrohir his whole face brightened.

'At last!' he cried. 'You'll be able to find Legolas! He's been missing for weeks.'

Gimli threw out a hand as if to stop him but too late.

Anything else anyone said was lost.

There was a roaring in Elrohir's ears and he almost fainted with the pressure in his head. He felt Elladan's attention shift too.

'What? Legolas is missing?' he heard Elladan ask for he could not speak. He leaned over Aragorn and blinked hard. Unable to focus on his dearest foster brother, unable to reach him for his own soul was suddenly awry and lost. He did not even notice how the skin beneath his hands crackled warningly.

'My lords? You did not know? The lord Legolas has been missing for weeks.' One of the younger women healers spoke now. Her voice was high and urgent and upset. Elrohir heard Gandalf's voice rumble as if in protest but he did not listen, did not hear. Legolas was missing? No wonder he could not sense him. Suddenly all those prescient feelings, those images of Legolas came flooding back and he knew then that it was not imagined but real. He had known Legolas was in danger! He had felt it but delayed, done _nothing_!

He turned his head towards Hallas accusingly, remembering the Man's hesitation, his nervousness when Elrohir had asked him where Legolas was. 'You _knew_!'

'Forgive me, lord,' Hallas held up his hands in terror and misery. 'It was for the King. I thought he would die. Only you can save him. He needs you now and we do not know where the Lord Legolas is! He has indeed been missing for weeks and I thought…I thought another hour would make no difference but it would save the King's life.'

But Elrohir was on his feet and within two strides, had the collar of Hallas' robes twisted round his fists. He was so much taller, broader and stronger than the Man, and he heard his own voice, harsh and dry. 'Tell me.'

It was Gimli who replied. 'Elrohir! Hallas is not to blame. That lies elsewhere.' His deep rich voice like the rumbling of the earth, like the Mountains. 'And this will not help Legolas!'

' _Tell me!_ ' Elrohir repeated, he ground out the words through teeth clenched so tightly they might break. He knew his eyes were dark with fury and he wanted to explode. He shook Hallas because he was there and had lied!

'Bearos has him,' said Gimli solemnly.

Elrohir stared at him, uncomprehendingly. 'But he is your prisoner, is he not? How can he have Legolas if you have him?' He felt like he was choking on the words.

'Bearos will not speak or tell where he has put Legolas…And we fear the worst.' Gimli sighed deeply and shook his head in despair. 'We believe Legolas saw the Ghoul and pursued it over into the Hallows since that is where the Ghoul seems to have chased his victims. But Legolas has not been seen since.' There was a pause and Elrohir thought he would never breath again for the fear had taken it from him.

 _Ghoul? What ghoul?_ _Victims_? Suddenly he wanted to run from this place, tear the city apart if he needed to! He released Hallas but only so he could stride towards Gimli, a storm in his heart. But somehow the Dwarf did not seem smaller than he. He knew he was shouting but could not help it. There was only one kind of ghoul that Elrohir had ever known; the Nazgûl.

This was Angmar. Somehow he knew it.

'I have tried to make him speak, but he will not yield for all my efforts,' Gandalf was saying and Elrohir whirled round, wanting to strike the Wizard for giving up! He could barely see for the red rage that had come over him. He could not feel anything but a blind panic and fear that left him shaking and furious.

'Then your efforts are not enough,' he spat and took a stride towards Gandalf now, but a hand caught at him. He stared down at the hand that held him in a steel-like grip and blinked finally. It was Elladan who held him.

'And what of Aragorn?' Elladan said sombrely. 'What of Estel? Would you leave him teetering on the brink of death?'

Elrohir himself teetered on the brink for a moment and then he looked at Elladan. 'Yes!' he cried. ' _Yes._ I will leave him! You do not need me if you have Gandalf.'

Elladan closed his eyes. 'Elrohir,' he said softly. 'You know that I need you here for this. I need you. Gandalf cannot heal him.'

'No!' Elrohir cried and took a step towards the door but at that moment, Aragorn gave a heaving, panting gulp as if he were drowning.

'They have done this on purpose,' Gandalf's voice came from somewhere behind him. 'This is an unbearable choice!' and even his voice quavered.

'My lords!' Hallas cried. 'My lords, the King!'

As one, all heads turned back to Aragorn. On the feather coverlet, Aragorn's hands spasmed, clutching at the cloth like claws. His head pressed back into the soft pillows and his chest heaved with the effort of breathing. But it was the swelling of the veins in his neck that alarmed both Elladan and Elrohir. The pressure they had found earlier in the pleural cavity had built rapidly and suddenly.

Elladan threw himself on his knees beside Aragorn.

Elrohir clenched his fists. He could not bear it!

But he dragged himself back to the table and flipped open the roll of velvet, seizing a wide-bored quiss, and the precious rotä that were only made in Imladris. He plunged both into a bowl of Ortire and stared at Elladan, who met his furious, hurt gaze steadily.

Elladan bent his head then, pressing gently upon Aragorn's chest. The skin crackled under his fingers like dried parchment and he paused, looking up at Elrohir.

Elrohir caught his gaze in bitter resignation. He had no choice. He washed his own hands in Ortire almost carelessly, splashing the amber liquid over the dark wood of the table. Then he bent over Aragorn, his dark head beside Elladan's and felt for the ribs with one hand and the quiss in the other. He found the swelling in the pleural cavity and swiftly, forcefully plunged the wide needle into Aragorn's chest. Behind them, as the onlookers saw what they did, there was a cry of outrage and anger. He heard Pippin's shocked gasp and knew somewhere that Gimli was holding him back and the Hobbit was sobbing in furious loss.

There was a hiss of air as it escaped from Aragorn's chest and the brothers glanced at each other in relief.

Elrohir held on as Elladan fastened the rotä onto the quiss and carefully withdrew the quiss leaving the rotä in place. Elrohir kept his hands pressed hard on the wound and swabbed the dark blood as it spurted out of the hole and over his hands. He wept as he did, felt tears streaming down his face as felt the pressure in Aragorn's chest give and although the blood pumped over his hands, his breathing became less laboured.

 _You cannot go, Estel! You will not leave like this!_

 _In the darkness, softly wrapping itself about him, it seemed coils of darkness wrapped about his feet, his knees, pored and slithered over him, about him and he was wading through coils of some huge serpent._

 _In his hand was not dark Aícanaro, but a blade of white light. Crystôl. Wielding it like a sword, he slashed down into the darkness. The coils writhed and thrashed in fury and pain but they slid and slithered away from him with repulsive speed as he plunged the white blade into its coils._

 _And then he saw where it was going; there, ahead of him, was Estel. A boy. He was running away from the serpent, which rose up over him and opened its jaws with a look of gleeful delight and malice. It did not look serpentine then but like some ghoulish face, white and haggard with bulging eyes. It stared down at Estel and its jaw dropped open, dislocated like a snake's so it could swallow him. It reared up and hovered over the boy as if enjoying his terror._

 _Estel was standing, staring up in abject fear at the serpent's maw that opened above him._

 _Estel! Elrohir shouted with all his being. Estel!_

 _Estel looked back over his shoulder towards Elrohir, his face streaked with the same tears that streaked Elrohir's._

 _You came for me, Elrohir! Estel cried with astonished joy. Even here._

 _I promised, Elrohir said, striding through the serpent's coils. He lifted the white blade and slashed at the sinuous, dense body, directing the drug against the terrible poison. The serpent's awful head plunged down over him, and Elrohir raised the sword and pierced the serpent's horrid soft throat. It let out a dreadful screech and thrashed and hissed. But Elrohir leaned down and scooped up the child who pressed his face against Elrohir's shoulder._

 _I thought you had forgotten me, Estel sobbed and Elrohir smoothed his hand over his soft hair. Never, he said though his face was wet with tears. Never. I will always find you until the day our paths no longer run together._

 _Does that mean you will not take the Paths of Men? It was Aragorn now who walked beside him, but he was old and though he still stood straight, he walked slowly and leaned on Elrohir's arm. You will leave me at the last? His voice was quiet, sad._

 _I am sorry._

 _They walked slowly towards the gates that stood open and light poured through. It was silver, like moonlight on still pools and he knew that Elladan was guiding them back._

When he opened his eyes, Aragorn's face was turned into his shoulder like the child he had carried, and his face was wet with tears. He blinked slowly. Aragorn's skin was still pale but there was the soft flush of sleep and not fever. He was warm to the touch and not the horrible clammy heat of the fever.

He felt a hand gently on his shoulder and knew it was Elladan. 'Go,' he said simply.

Elrohir turned his head only towards Gimli and said over his shoulder in a flat voice, 'Where is Bearos being kept.'

'The Tower of Ecthelion, my lord.' Gimli's voice was strange, he chewed the end of his beard and his feet seemed restless. Then he added, 'I will come with you.'

Elrohir fled. He barely recalled his flight. His feet flew over the polished stones and marble inlaid floor.

He flung open the doors, one after another, striding through the chambers, ignoring the scuttling servants, the clerks, the guards who made way for him for they knew him and thought they knew his purpose would be to avenge himself upon Bearos for Aragorn's stabbing.

But he would not wait and he would not stop. His long strides outpaced everyone easily and his cloak billowed about him but it felt like it slowed him down, so one-handed, he unclasped it and cast it upon the polished stone floor. Ahead of him were the arched stone doorways of the Tower of Ecthelion, and two guards straightened as he approached like a storm. He heard the quick sharp steps of Gimli following, and Mithrandir's slower, longer steps. But he did not care who followed him; no one would stop him now.

The guards saw his face, serious, relentless, seemingly impassive as stone but that was not how he felt in his heart. Legolas was missing. He had been for weeks. And somehow, this Bearos was responsible.

The guards stood aside for him and he raced up the steps, two, three, four at a time until he reached the upper level where the cells were. His long stride took him past empty cells, peering in through the grilles to see only empty stone cells, single wooden beds and chains. One cell had signs of recent occupation. A think blanket cast over the low bed. A desk and chair pushed back. Empty.

Then he heard something.

A mewl. A whimper.

It came from further down the stone passageway, where it was darker, gloomier. A drift of mist seemed to linger.

There were guards sitting playing cards at a rickety table and they stood up, shoving chairs back as he approached. 'Where is he? 'Elrohir demanded and they gestured to the last cell.

'Taquil is in there with him, feeding him I think, my lord. Mithrandir was here but the King called for him some time ago.'

Elrohir barely acknowledged them.

He strode towards the last cell. A glimmer of light came from within, torchlight gleaming on the walls. He leaned towards the heavy door, expecting it to be locked but when he put his hand on the latch, it was open and the door swung open easily.

0o0o

There was a great clamour and the sound of feet running up the stone steps towards Bearos' cell. He felt the approach like wildfire, a crimson burning and his mouth stretched into a horrible grimacing smile.

The door was flung open at the moment he let the Man drop to the floor, wriggling weakly and mewling like a kitten. Blood soaked Bearos' mouth and his eyes bulged, red and sore and mad.

'Ahhhhhhh,' the longest sigh. Khamûl reached out with long fingers of lust and desire. 'At last.' Khamûl bowed low, sank to his knees.

Elrohir Ravéyön was here.

At last.


	37. Chapter 37 Yôzâira

Thank you to the very wonderful Anarithilien who always puts me right:)

Apologies for the long delay. Work insane.

Chapter 36: Yôzâira

There was a great clamour and the sound of feet running up the stone steps towards Bearos' cell. He felt the approach like wildfire, a crimson burning and his mouth stretched into a horrible grimacing smile. His mouth was wet with the blood of the guard he had lured too close, it soaked his throat and chest and hands. He licked them clean, smacking his lips and savouring the iron-copper taste.

The moment the door was flung open, he let the guard drop to the floor, where he wriggled weakly, mewling like a kitten and clutching at his throat where the blood pumped copiously from that great pulsing carotid, the artery that Bearos had ripped open.

'Ahhhhhhh,' Bearos gave the longest sigh as Ravéyön approached. Khamûl reached out with long fingers of lust and desire. 'At last.' Bearos, bowed low, sank in his chains to his knees.

Elrohir Ravéyön was here.

At last.

'Lord!' he gasped, his eyes fixed upon the incandescent and glorious figure. 'Lord! Ravéyön! Master.' A swirl of crimson was about the lord, and he was tall, strong. His eyes were aflame and Bearos almost swooned with desire. Power surged across the cell, thrummed in the air.

0o0o

Elrohir stared aghast at the Man struggling weakly, hands clutched to his throat, and immediately sank to his knees, pressing down on the jugular as hard as he could, though he knew there was no point. Blood pumped inexorably over his fingers and flooded the stone floor. Behind him, he heard Gimli cry out and then the Dwarf was beside him, helping. Elrohir grabbed Gimli's hand and showed him where to apply pressure so he could try and mend the torn and ripped trachea but the Man was already going into shock and his eyes were wild and staring. There was nothing really that Elrohir could do.

But Gimli had leaned down and was holding the Man gently. 'I will find your loved ones,' Gimli said. 'I will tell them. I will make sure they are safe and cared for. I swear this on the Mazarkût.' He nodded in salutation and the Man blinked. If he heard or understood, Elrohir could not tell. Gimli's fingers moved in a little patter over the Man's heart as it spasmed and stuttered and finally, stopped. The Man's eyes were fixed upon the Dwarf's as they glazed in death.

There was a shocking ululation. Rattling chains and shrieking.

Elrohir leapt to his feet, turning towards the sound.

Only now did he see the thing that was shackled, chained to the wall and it strained and gibbered like some maddened half-beast, half-Man. At first Elrohir recoiled in horror, for blood soaked the creature's mouth and chin and chest and he knew it was the blood of the dead guard.

Then he realised that this thing was Bearos. And it had Legolas.

Aghast, he looked down at the creature; Gimli had described Bearos as a ghoul and indeed whatever Bearos now was, he was no longer a Man. It had sunk onto its knees, straining forwards in its chains and its horrible bloody face, elongated and white, was turned up towards Elrohir and its eyes were red-rimmed and bulged from the sockets.

'Yesyesyesyes!' It gibbered and sniggered horribly.

Blood from the dead guard dripped from Elrohir's hands onto his boots and he was suddenly choked with fear for Legolas. He strode towards Bearos. 'Where is Legolas? What have you done with him?'

Bearos' jaw dropped and his teeth clacked but he did not speak. Instead, he slowly, pleasurably licked the blood from his lips and sniggered loudly, showing long yellow teeth. Elrohir clenched his fist but a hand lay on his arm and he turned angrily.

'He will not speak.' It was Gandalf. He shook his head regretfully. 'I have tried.'

'Let's just kill it,' Gimli stood looking down at the dead Man at his feet. He had cast his cloak over the guard's face. 'I do not believe it knows anything about Legolas,' he added defiantly. 'It is not strong enough or clever enough to have captured an Elf.' But Elrohir knew he only sought to goad Bearos into speaking. The ghoul just clacked its teeth and swung on its shackles as if it felt no pain.

Elrohir suddenly thought that perhaps they would never make Bearos speak. Perhaps Legolas was already dead. In despair he drew Aícanaro. The blade sprang from its sheath and Bearos twisted in his chains and spat. "So you know Aícanaro,' Elrohir said and he pressed the dark blade against Bearos' neck. The ghoul writhed and thrashed as if in agony but Gandalf leapt in and pulled Elrohir's arm away.

'Put down that sword, Elrohir Elrondion! You will do no murder even if this creature deserves it seven times over!'

'I am not a fool!' Elrohir shouted angrily. He glared at the Wizard furiously. 'But you could not get him to speak. I will not be so delicate.'

'If you kill me,' Bearos grinned maliciously, 'you will never know where he is.'

Elrohir stared in hatred. 'So you do have him.' He leaned down over the ghoul in spite of his horror for it was Legolas' sake he did this, and hissed at Bearos, 'You will tell me where he is or your torment will be unimaginable.'

Bearos sneered. 'You wish to see where he is? Then come close. Let me touch you and I can show you.'

Elrohir stared at the creature for a moment and Gimli cried out a warning. Gandalf too, stepped between them but Elrohir pushed the Wizard back and pulled Bearos up onto his feet. He brought his face close to the ghoul and the creature stretched out its long fingered, gnarled hands as far as it could and touched Elrohir's arm.

Instantly he was somewhere else – somewhere dark, close, suffocating.

He saw Bearos pounding through the darkness, clambering over sarcophagi and knew he was in a crypt. He could feel how Bearos had smelled, sniffed and tracked someone in the Dark, how he had felt, saw, the slightest shift in the darkness. There. Crouching by a tomb. Silent.

A figure. Hunched. Hiding. A glimmer.

Elrohir knew it was Legolas but he could do nothing. It had happened. It was a moment past.

Bearos had stilled. He had watched. Amused. The Elf's heart had been hammering in his chest. Pumping blood. Pulse racing. Bearos licked his lips.

Rose silently upon his haunches. Leapt.

He crashed down onto the Elf before he even looked up. The force of his leap rolled them both over and over, crashing together. The Elf fought hard and Bearos laughed maniacally, aware that he was dribbling and gibbering, enjoying the feel of the strength pinned that he pinned beneath him. The Elf struggled uselessly but Bearos was so strong! He flexed his muscles and grinned. 'Got you….'He let the syllable die away into the dark.

'Time to feed.'

He grabbed the Elf's long hair and dragged him by his hair at first but the Elf still fought and kicked, so Bearos smashed his fists into him and crushed him. Then he flipped the Elf onto his belly like a fish and bent one of his arms up behind him almost to cracking. It was a good thing Bearos had fed upon the Elf two days ago, otherwise he might not have been strong enough to subdue the Elf so completely. Even weakened, the Elf struggled and kicked and bit, and Bearos eventually slammed his face into the wall so he was completely stunned and then it was easier.

Elrohir fell back in horror for a moment and then he lunged forwards again and seized Bearos by the throat, shaking him until his teeth rattled.

'Tell me where he is or so help me, I shall make your death a long and painful agony, you will scream for death long before I give it to you!'

'I will take you,' whispered Bearos hoarsely. 'I will show you where he is but first you must accept my fealty.'

Elrohir dropped him like he had been bitten. Gandalf shoved him out of the way again. 'There is some trickery in this, Elrondion. Do not do this.'

Bearos hissed and snarled at him, spat at him in fury. 'Then let him die! Alone in the dark. In unimaginable torment.' He lifted his lips back in a sneer. 'I do not care. It pleasures me to see you in such turmoil.' He gyrated his hips obscenely, pressing against what was left of his rags so they could see he was erect and lustful. His jaw clacked and gibbered and even Gandalf shifted back for it was horrible.

'It is the only way you will find him!' Bearos shouted gleefully, pulling on his chains and throwing himself destructively against them so his wrists were raw and bloody. 'The only way you will get to him in time. He will be dead in hours, not days!'

Elrohir narrowed his eyes and scowled resentfully at Gandalf.

'Your delay means his death,' Bearos hissed softly, mad and bulging eyes fixed upon Elrohir. The ghoul rattled his chains. 'Let me show you how I can serve. I will pledge myself to you! Accept it and I will swear fealty to you. I will give you a sign of my bondage to you.' He lowered his voice craftily and peered up at Elrohir with his wicked, bright eyes. 'I will take you to him. But only you. You alone and no one can follow.'

'Elrohir, listen to Gandalf,' warned Gimli. 'There is foul purpose in this beast. It seeks to take you into the Hallows on your own. It is treacherous and cruel.'

Elrohir stared at the Dwarf and then said bitterly, 'What choice do I have?' He shook off Gandalf's hand and glared at Gimli.

For a moment, the Dwarf's earth brown eyes held Elrohir's fearlessly. And then then he nodded briefly. 'None,' he said firmly. 'Then do it.' Gimli kept his gaze and would not look away. 'For Legolas' sake. But if you do not return, I swear that I will find you. I will not let you fall.'

Gratefully, Elrohir nodded briefly and then he turned furiously back to Bearos. 'Swear then. Swear upon your black and darkened soul that you will serve me.'

Bearos gibbered and capered, so his shackles rattled and clattered. 'I will swear ,' he shouted gleefully. 'I will swear upon the Everlasting Dark. I swear to serve you, master, lord.' His voice darkened and it seemed something else was in the high stone chamber then, something dark and secret. 'I swear by the Darkness that I will merge with your very soul so I cannot deceive you, cannot trick you and will never escape you. Ravéyön.'

Elrohir stumbled back. Ravéyön.

He had been called that before. By the Nazgûl.

Bearos chittered excitedly. 'Yesyesyesyesyes. Now we have you!'

His mad, bulging eyes were fixed upon Elrohir's. He knew. Bearos was the creature of the Nazgûl. But he was the only way to find Legolas. Elrohir did in truth, have no choice.

'Release him,' he called back over his shoulder to the guards clustered around their dead companion.

There was a stunned silence followed by a sudden loud protest from the guards, Gimli's voice bellowing over them adding to the din. But Elrohir raised his voice angrily. 'I said, release him! Do it. Now! Or do you wish us to never find Legolas?'

It was Gimli who bullied the guards into yielding their keys and fitting them to the heavy shackles. He glared at Bearos as if he might incinerate him with a mere look and Bearos clacked his teeth and hissed.

At last the shackles were removed and Bearos collapsed to the floor gasping, giggling, rubbing his raw and bloody wrists. He rolled about clacking his teeth and laughing maniacally so the guards skittered back out of his way, horrified by the prospect of Bearos even touching them. Bearos rolled and lifted his hands up towards Elrohir as if in supplication. Eyes bulging and mad, he suddenly lunged for the one of the other Men. He gnashed at the Man's thigh, tearing through the cloth, skin, to the precious blood beneath. Shouting and outrage erupted from the guards. In the mayhem, hands dragged at Bearos, feet kicked at him, trying to dislodge him and he seized one foot and bit into it as hard as he could so there was a yelp of pain.

Elrohir waded in amongst them, grasping Bearos hard by the shoulder, he threw him off the guard and flung him back. Bearos' head banged against the wall and his long teeth rattled with the impact. Elrohir grabbed his collar and shook him.

'Liar! You are forsworn!' Spittle flew from Elrohir's mouth.

Bearos gasped in lustful delight at the violence and let his head fall back in ecstasy. 'You said nothing!' he panted. 'You gave me no orders, no instruction, no words!'

'Then I command you not to bite, not harm anyone.' Elrohir leaned over Bearos now furiously. 'You will show me where he is.'

Bearos licked his lips, and gazed up at Elrohir utterly bewitched, utterly aware. He reached up slowly and just pressed a long finger to Elrohir's hot skin, just stroke it quickly before Elrohir pulled away in disgust, just enough to release the power and sparks of energy that flew up like hot cinders from a bonfire.

Ravéyön.

A long sigh, relief, triumph, elation.

Elrohir felt Angmar then, as if he were standing next to him, and he knew he had no escape.

Come. Join us.

The Brethren were waiting. They had a gift for Ravéyön. One that would enslave him and buy their release from the Glass, from the Dark and back into the World.

A shimmering trail seemed to resolve before Elrohir and the drifts of mist that had lingered at the edges of the cell, in the tower coalesced and bound, reaching ahead of him, drawing him on.

'Come,' said Bearos. 'Your Yôzâira waits.'

Yôzaira. Again, that name. It was the Nazgul, and they awaited him.

Gandalf caught his arm. 'Elrohir, this is madness. Just give us a little more time to press him. Perhaps…'

'Perhaps he is already dead!' snapped Elrohir. 'Perhaps you have dallied until it is too late.'

Elrohir grasped Bearos' collar firmly and yanked him forwards. 'Come. Now.' He dragged Bearos out of the cell but in truth, Bearos scampered at his side, sometimes using a knuckle to propel himself in his lolloping gait.

Men scrambled out of his way as they left the cell. He heard Gandalf shouting something but he did not stop and Bearos sniggered and lolloped alongside.

Bearos gave Elrohir a wicked, hungry look that made him believe all of Gimli's cautions; Bearos simply meant to lure him into the dark and then kill him. Bearos lunged forwards. Everyone scattered out of his way but he lunged from the cell, dragging Elrohir after him. Bearos almost tumbled down the stone steps of the Tower, throwing himself down three four five stairs at a time, with no regard for the damage he was doing to this body.

They raced out into the evening. Twilight was falling. A few stars glinted above them already for there was no moon. They raced along the Rath Dínen and into the Hallows. Bearos fled, roaring in delight and sped up, his long feet pounded over the stones, his haunches gathered and bounded ahead. Elrohir panted in his effort to keep up for Bearos was inhumanly swift, and when Bearos leapt over walls and sped over the smooth paving stones, Elrohir followed.

Bearos threw open the great doors of the mausoleum and plunged into the dark. Elrohir did not hesitate but snatched a flickering torch from one of the sconces in the vestibule and though the flame guttered and flickered in the speed of their flight, it showed their shadows fleeing ahead of them through the silent darkness of the crypt.

'Stop!' Elrohir shouted, his breath coming hard and panting. 'I command you!'

Grimacing and furious, Bearos skidded to a halt and turned, reluctantly and like a cringing cur, sidled back towards Elrohir. His chest was heaving with breathlessness and he could see the torchlight, a crimson edge limning his outline.

But there was no sense of Legolas, no green-gold lingering Song, no scent of meadowgrass hay. Elrohir stopped; he did not believe that Legolas was here.

'He is not here. You are foresworn,' he said accusingly, his hand upon Aícanaro for he thought Bearos might now turn upon him.

Bearos' mad, bulging eyes were upon Elrohir and he grinned horribly. 'I have sworn to you, my lord!' He stumbled to his knees clumsily, like it was hard to make them move like a man now. 'I swore my fealty, my lord master,' Bearos said humbly, crouching at Elrohir's feet. 'If you do not believe me, then take this meagre token as a sign of my fealty.' Bearos lifted his hand and pulled something from his finger. It gleamed dully in the dimness. 'It is an heirloom of my House. I will show you where he is, I swear upon the Dark that will take me if I am foresworn. Accept my fealty, lord, and I will do your bidding.' He held the ring towards Elrohir, hardly daring to breathe.

Elrohir approached suspiciously and looked down at the ring where it gleamed dully in Bearos' hand. He glanced at Bearos astutely. 'The Dark has you already, Bearos, for all that you have done. You are no Man. You are a beast of the Dark and it will take you to itself when it has finished with you.'

The firelight of the torch gleamed over the ring where it lay in the clawed hand.

And then, slowly, at last Elrohir took the ring with his forefinger and thumb and looked at it.

Yeeessssss. At last. We have you.

But he did not put it on.

He stared at it, as if fascinated and curious, but he frowned too. Aícanaro stirred in its sheath and Elrohir's eyes shifted slightly downwards towards the dark blade.

0o0o0

Bearos crouched, his knuckles on the ground and his eyes bulging and fixed upon Elrohir. The ring gleamed softly, as if inconsequential, made itself small and insignificant. For a moment, Elrohir's frown deepened for he was suspicious and then abruptly, he palmed the Ring and shoved it into an inner pocket of his tunic.

'Get going, foul one. Take me to where Legolas is.'

Bearos sniggered uncontrollably and Elrohir stared at Bearos in disgust and contempt, but there was horror behind his eyes as if he comprehended something, a little of what had happened.

Yes, thought Bearos, that is how it starts. You do not know at first, that you have changed. And then the dreams start, and then Khamûl will make himself know and possess you utterly. Bearos knew as well, that this was to be his last act. He saw how long his face had become, and felt his jaw drop uncontrollably and yack as he tried to close it.

The Ring nestled against Elrohir's heart, beady red eyes glittering in the dark, silent, Still. Hiding its true nature. Pressed up against Elrohir's heated and radiant skin, Khamûl had Elrohir but did not yet possess him. Bearos felt the world shifting and changing around him as Khamûl left him for Elrohir. Pain lanced through him now that Khamûl no longer wrapped himself about Bearos, dulling the pain. His feet were agony, the bones stretched and ligament pulled beyond a human shape. He looked at his long hands, the ragged nails had dried blood beneath them. Something choked in his chest, like a scream trying to force its way out but Khamûl still had his Will bound like iron and he could not resist. Khamûl drove talons of his own into Bearos' spirit, dragged him, lashed at him and forced his painful feet to move, as it had Maltök until his grisly death. Bearos shuffled forwards, glancing over his shoulder at Ravéyön who followed slowly, hesitantly, as if he were no longer quite in control of his own body.

So they slid into the darkness of the Tombs, like a glove it closed over them swallowed them and Khamûl drove them faster and faster through the dark.

0o0o

Legolas felt the wet silk of the Glass press about him once again. it closed over his face and he thought he could not breathe. He knew the Brethren were excited; they reached for him with their bony, claw-like hands and the Rings they wore glowed with intensity in the darkness like cold eyes.

His thoughts were slow and cold, but he could hear them slurp and drink his blood once again and his body twitched and spasmed. This is the last, he realised. Their bloody mouths were on him, sucking blood through the membrane of the Glass that was so thin now that he feared they could indeed break through; and yes, they needed something more and he thought it would be connected with Elrohir.

Angmar showed him then.

Elrohir, magnificent and strong, hurrying through the dark city, his footsteps ringing on the stones, running along the top of the Rath Dínen towards the Nazgûl.

'No. No.' He heard his own voice as if it were a long long way away. Distant and weak.

'Yes, Yes. he will come for you, his Yôzâira. Khamûl is bringing him to us so that we may use him. He has always wanted you like this. And here, we give it to him…It is a pity you will only live to see that moment. For as he walks through the gate, we will tear your soul from your body and devour you. I fear it will hurt greatly.' Angmar's voice was so reasonable, so regretful.

Legolas' head hung down, he was so weary. He could see his body twitch with the loss of blood, and he was so cold. But he was still Thranduillion, he told himself quietly. I am still Legolas. And I will not allow them to use Elrohir. I will not allow them to break free.

A thin laugh told him that Angmar perceived all his thoughts.

'How do you think you will stop that? Do you think to fade before he gets here? Have you not yet tried? You are not quite weak enough, but a little longer and the boundaries between your living and the spirit world will be so thin that will slip away without recognizing what you do.

It showed him Elrohir, magnificent in his fury, dark Aícanaro in hand, striding through the dark passageways of the Tombs. He was close, so close that Legolas knew if he cried out Elrohir would come. He closed his mouth and tasted salt but he would not cry out.

You will die.

We will tear your soul apart and devour you.

Ravéyön will despair. He will despair and, in that despair, he will rip the last of this thinning barrier between this world of darkness and the living.

We will break through with dark Aícanaro

Aícanaro our nemesis.

Aícanaro. Our saviour.

We will return to the World of Men and the living.

We will rule again.

Your soul will leave as he walks through the gate, we will devour you at that moment and he will despair. He will strike out with Aícanaro which will cleave the Glass in two and give us the power we need to break through our prison and return to the World of Men.

Slowly, he thought what was said; Aícanaro would cleave the Glass. Elrohir's strange and sentient sword was the key and the Nazgul were banking that Elrohir would be so furious that he would break the Glass when he saw what had been done to Legolas.

No, he said quietly to himself. I will not allow it. He bit down on his cry, and all the stubborn pride of his House rose up in defiance of Legolas' fate, he gathered the green-gold threads of his fëa and wound them thickly about his own self, and then drew down the veil so his Song was suppressed.

There was a shriek like nails scraping down a board and he cringed at the sound. Fury came from within the Glass and the Nazgul rose up like bats, their thin black shrouds beating at him like trapped bats. He turned his head so weakly for his blood thudded feebly through his depleted veins, starved and thin.

He felt their savage bite again and the suffocating wet silk was over his face, his mouth and he knew then that he was about to die.

You think this changes anything! Already it is too late!

He

is

here!

The shrieking rose to an unendurable din and he knew that it did not matter than he had suppressed his Song, the Nazgul would create such a cacophony that Elrohir would hear it and know he was here. And anyway, Khamûl was loose in the world and he would bring Elrohir to this dreadful place.

It was then that he felt it; a pressure in the air that he had not felt before. Heavy, like a storm approached. And the stone slab shifted and moved, a grating cracked the air and orange torchlight fell into the cell, cast a demonic glow around the walls, gleaming in the Mirror.

He turned his head and half opened his eyes, hoping for just one last look at his beloved. Just one. He felt him drawing close and ruthlessly suffocated his own Song.

'Do not come. Go instead. Leave me,' he muttered, shoving away all sense of his Elrohir, setting up a wall against him.

And he felt them close about him, the yaffling, suckling on his skin, the sharp pain as they pierced him again and again as before. He stifled the cry, swallowed the pain and suddenly there was a blinding light and a soft implosion. He thought he had gone deaf and blind.

0o0o

Elrohir pursued Bearos through the high-roofed chambers of the Kings' tombs. The torchlight skimmed the elaborate sarcophagi with their bronze and gold effigies lying side by side in the silent and velvet dark. Elrohir's own shadow loomed ahead of him, as monstrous and misshapen as Bearos', and they fled deeper, one ahead of the other, into the most ancient catacombs where the bones of the earliest kings and chieftains slowly turned to dust.

As they plunged down crudely carved stone steps, Elrohir's foot kicked something that clattered away. He lifted the flaring torch and stared into the dark. Light caught on something pale, ivory. A bone. At first the thought he had dislodged one of the ancient bones buried in this gloomy place but he saw shreds of meat, blood. Splinters of bone where it had been gnawed upon.

He could not help the gasp that escaped his lips and the sudden surge of fear that clenched in his belly. He looked up suddenly to see that Bearos was crouched, not far from him, the horrid bulging eyes fixed upon him.

'He wouldn't shut upshutupshtup,' Bearos said, jaw clacking and snapping. He licked his lips with his long red tongue, blinking hard as he did so and his fingers were gnarled and clenched, like the long paws of a wolf.

Elrohir swallowed hard and steadied himself against the stone wall, realised his hand was shaking. 'You have sworn to show me where is Legolas,' he said determinedly. 'Show me.'

Bearos crept, sidled towards him, mad bulging eyes fixed upon Elrohir frighteningly. He was so like a Man and yet so completely alien, other. Bearos reached out tentatively towards Elrohir as if he might stroke a finger down his arm.

Jerking his arm away, Elrohir glared at the creature. 'You swore!' he said. 'I demand that you fulfil your oath!'

Snarling and gibbering, Bearos drew back. Then he bunched the muscles in his haunches and bounded away into the dark.

'Yesyesyesyesyes,' it shrieked from ahead, as it had before.

Elrohir hesitated for a moment, hair prickling on his head and neck. Then he crashed after it, following the maniacal screeching and giggling. They plunged down tunnels and fled upwards and downwards through chambers of silent tombs. More than once he thought they had already passed this way but he had no time to stop or think or mark their passing in case he was lost. Once, then twice, he thought Bearos was ahead of him, only to see the shadow of the creature dart right in front of him and then bound away into the dark.

Breathing hard, Elrohir rested one hand upon the rock wall and leaned over to catch his breath.

He felt the air shift and turned, lifting the torch higher. Suddenly his heart gave a great pounding beat for Bearos was standing upright in the dark, his outline limned hellishly by the red torchlight. He stood tall on his haunches but so inhuman, more like a dog standing stretched on its back legs. Or a wolf. Yes. Elrohir could see now. More lupine. The long snout and canines, his red tongue lolled and the hair was coarse. Elrohir felt every nerve in his body shrill with alarm and his hand rested on Aícanaro.

'You do not have me yet,' he said sternly, more firmly than he felt. 'And you have sworn to take me to him.' Elrohir forced himself to stride aggressively towards Bearos in spite of the horror that stiffened every hair on his head and neck and back. 'Where is he? Take me to him now or I will throw your trinket back at you and leave you here.'

That seemed to work for the ghoul suddenly dropped and rested its knuckles on the floor, grinning up at him with mad bulging eyes, red-rimmed as if it had not slept for weeks. Its jaw kept dropping as if it could not keep it shut and Elrohir found that horrific. But suddenly it turned and leapt away into the dark, shrieking and gibbering. He had no choice but to follow as it plunged headlong into a narrow tunnel and suddenly skidded to a halt about a hundred yards in. Elrohir almost clattered into him but managed to throw himself to the side for he could not bear the thought of touching Bearos, the very idea made his hair prickle stiffly and his gorge rise.

'Why have you stopped?' he demanded aggressively. 'There is nothing here.' He held the torch up and the light showed a smooth wall.

Grinning, Bearos groped about in the dust and his long fingers suddenly paused and scrabbled. He muttered to himself and his teeth clacked. He lifted his hand. A key gleamed in the torchlight. But Elrohir could see no door.

'What is this? Do you seek to fool me?' Elrohir demanded angrily, for there was no sense of Legolas. No lilting Song, no scent of meadowgrass and summer hay, no green-gold light. Suddenly he found he could not bear the loss and his heart lurched in his chest.

But Bearos twitched and pulled his face into a grimace. He sniggered and twitched again before he seemed to slide his fingers along a ridge on the rock and suddenly, something happened.

A click, and then the sound of grinding stone and he saw that the rock wall was in fact a thick, solid slab of iron but that he had not been able to see it. Bearos was pushing at it, slowly it opened, an inch, two inches and Bearos pressed his face into the gap.

His shriek frightened Elrohir more than he wanted to admit for it had pierced the silence like banshee's wailing. But it was the hoarse cry that came from within that had Elrohir leaping forwards and shoving Bearos out of the way, hope blazing in his chest.

'Legolas!'

'He is in there, lord. He awaits you.'

Elrohir lifted the torch and strained to see through the gap in the rock and the grinding slab of iron. He threw back the slab of iron and it crashed against the rock with a resounding clang that echoed through the tunnel and reverberated in the dark.

'Legolas!' he cried, and threw himself forwards but iron bars pressed against him and so he did not hear the distant cry that came from somewhere in the tombs, and an answering call from a long way away in the darkness. But Bearos did and he cast his mad gaze anxiously back over his shoulder.

Elrohir was only aware that here was yet another gate.

He turned and grabbed Bearos, shook him again hard. 'Open it!' he demanded.

Within, he could hear Legolas moan softly. He was alive! Elrohir's heart leapt in his chest.

'Elrohir?' A voice so weak it cut him in two. 'Elrohir?'

'Oh my Legolas! What have they done?'

Elrohir pressed against the bars again, thrust the torch between them so he could see his beloved's face.

Beyond the iron bars, the torchlight showed a cell carved roughly from the stone of the mountain. The deceitful warmth of the flickering torch lit the room, and there in the centre, was Legolas, his arms were pulled taut above his head, and Elrohir could see the strain in his muscles. the pain, the sinews stood out on his arms. His lean, hard body was stripped naked and stretched by chains that disappeared up into the dark. In the firelight, his long hair shone golden, sweeping down his strong back and the inked swirls and patterns coiled about his lean hips and trailed erotically down his thigh.

Elrohir gasped; it was his dream, his vision. This was his fantasy, the wicked dark lust that he thought he had tamed! This was for him! His fault. And then he noticed the hundreds of tiny cuts and bites over Legolas' naked body, blood smeared and almost indistinguishable from the ink.

'Legolas!' he cried.

Legolas' long green eyes were wide, frightened and fixed upon the gate in fear. 'Elrohir you must leave!' he rasped, his beautiful voice pathetically weak and hoarse. 'It is a trap! Please I beg you. If you love me at all, fly . Get out of here now!'

Elrohir threw himself forwards and gripped the bars.

'Look, look at him,' Bearos murmured ecstatically and Elrohir looked down at him suddenly for he had almost forgotten Bearos. 'Your Yôzâira. From your dreams, he comes. This is all for you.'

Legolas' lips parted and Elrohir grabbed at Bearos and dragged him upright. He wanted to rip the beast to pieces, wanted to tear his heart out. He brought his face close to the beast's and did not care about the foulness of its breath. 'Open it!' he hissed violently and Bearos grinned, his face full of wicked delight and he reached towards Elrohir and just stroked his arm. Elrohir jerked his arm back but Bearos looked upwards as he could see power and sparks of energy released from his touch, like hot cinders from a bonfire. 'You will open this gate now. You will release him,' Elrohir commanded through clenched teeth, spittle flew from his lips as he spoke and he thrust Bearos towards the iron gate.

Legolas gave a hoarse cry of distress. 'No! Elrohir, no! ' he moved his head in agitation and his voice was urgent and raw as if he had screamed himself hoarse. 'Please! Elrohir please! If you love me at all, fly from this place. It is a trap. It is you they want.'

Elrohir did not care; if it was him they wanted and it would free Legolas, they could have him. He threw open the iron grille with a clang and stepped into the cell.

0o0o


	38. Chapter 38 Khamûl

Many thanks to my fantastic and wonderful beta, Anarithilien who nudged the plot into even darker and more perilous realms that it was already!

Thanks to the readers who leave reviews. Thank you- it does make a difference when it's hard to motivate myself.

ulkrelz- a sort of sixth sense that the Dwarves have underground that tells them about the Stone, but also alerts them to the presence or passage of other dwarves.

Chapter 37: Khamûl

Arwen trotted at Erestor's side, hand on her sword like an elven page from the Last Alliance. It would be well to maintain that illusion, Erestor thought to himself and murmured as much to her. She nodded tightly. Above him the white Tower of Ecthelion loomed and he was reminded, vaguely, of Gondolin, although it was not as fair. The lines of the city not as elegant, nor as precise. The stone not as smoothly rendered. It looked clumsy and child-like but there was an impression of grandeur, he thought. He was looking for a flash of black Noldo hair, of sable cloaks and sable horses. And there was none here.

Guards were approaching them, hands loosely on the hilts of swords, faces alert but not hostile towards the Elves and Erestor thought on what they had already been told as they had ridden through the city. All had seemed peaceful and untroubled until they reached the fourth level, and there they had been stopped and challenged, albeit briefly. Overturned carts and signs of battle had been evident at the gate and the guards battered and bruised. The Gatekeeper, Cendir, had told them the tale of the attempt on Aragorn's life, the disappearance of Legolas, and the capture of the Ghoul that was responsible for both. But Erestor had also noted the fog that lay curled over the citadel like a serpent, and the air of unease and disquiet that still lingered in spite of the rebels' defeat. Cendir had told them that the Ghoul was held captive in the Tower of Ecthelion and that one of the brothers of Aragorn attended the King and the other was with Mithrandir questioning the Ghoul.

They had agreed that Glorfindel and Tindomión go to aid Elrohir in the search for Legolas and so had gone to the Tower of Ecthelion, and that Erestor would escort Arwen to Aragorn's side.

When they arrived at the King's Palace, Erestor assumed his usual polished air, his face smooth and untroubled. 'Good man, we seek the lord Elladan,' he said calmly to the guards. 'I and my page,' he turned and indicated Arwen whose hood was pulled up over her face, 'are from the household of Imladris and bring greetings from Elrond and the Lady Galadriel, Queen of Lothlorien, to the King and his brothers. Do you know where we might find him?'

The guard bowed. He was a tall man and strong, his lean, handsome face regarded them curiously and with interest. 'The King's brother, Elladan, attends him and Elrohir is in the Tower of Ecthelion with Mithrandir.' He cast a quick, appraising look over them, his gaze lingered longer on Arwen for she had struck a pose that she supposed masculine, but Erestor sighed inwardly, for it just looked odd. 'My name is Arduin, my lord. I will escort you to the King.' It was only when the Man turned and led the way that Erestor noticed the tear in his cloak, the bruise under his eye and thought that here was more evidence that Aragorn was still vulnerable, for this was the Citadel of the city itself and should be invulnerable.

Erestor turned to Arwen with compassion for she was in agony not knowing how her beloved Estel was. 'Come,' he murmured for her ears only. 'Let us find your errant betrothed and see what he has been up to.'

The Man was quick to take them to the King's chamber and Erestor had to hold Arwen back. 'Remember Arwen the future Queen of Gondor is not supposed to be here,' he hissed and she glared at him. 'It is highly improper.'

'I am not a fool,' she hissed back crossly. "I am not going to throw myself upon him!'

He smiled back, fondly and a little proud of her feisty spirit. But she was no fool and understood statecraft better than any Erestor had ever tutored, better than any man. He turned back to the guard and said, 'Will you announce us, good sir. I am Lord Erestor, of Lindon, Himring and Imladris. This is my page.' He nodded dismissively at Arwen whose hood was still pulled up over her face and Erestor cast a glamour quickly as Arduin announced them into the King's chamber.

As they stepped within, they saw a knot of brown-clad healers gathered near the bed and Erestor felt Arwen's sharp gasp. He held onto her for a moment and said loudly enough for all to hear, 'Go, child. Assist the lord Elladan, as you are skilled in healing.'

Arwen gave a cry and flew to Aragorn's side like a bird set free. She fell to her knees beside the bed and reached for him.

'Your King is much loved in Imladris. He saved this one's life,' he said loudly so that the healers, gathered around the bed, could hear. Heads turned, eyes widened and mouths opened as they took in Erestor himself and he distracted them enough with a wide, predatory smile, so that Arwen could smooth back Aragorn's hair from his pale face without note.

And there was Elladan.

He had turned slowly towards Erestor at the sound of his voice and Erestor almost held his breath for the loveliness of Elladan's smile. His heart leapt and he wanted to fly to Elladan as Arwen had flown to Aragorn. But he quashed it ruthlessly and focused instead on dazzling the healers by elaborately brushing his blue-grey velvet coat and shaking out the lace of his shirt beneath the sleeves. He raised an insouciant eyebrow and flashed his white teeth, letting his amber eyes skip over their astonished and bemused faces. He smiled in the most predatory way he could muster and watched one or two take a step back.

'Pray,' he waved at them with a flourish, thinking how much he enjoyed the velvet coat, how it accentuated his lean shape, showed off the tight breeches and thigh-length riding boots. 'Continue,' he said and flashed another grin at Elladan, who gave him a knowing look as he turned back to Aragorn and brushed a hand over Arwen's head as he did, like a blessing.

'The King is safe,' Elladan said softly and Arwen bowed her head and took Aragorn's hand in hers.

Erestor stood at the doorway, watching Elladan. He found it soothing to watch those skillful hands as Elladan poured and mixed the jewel-like liquids in blown glass vials, the flash of the silver surgical instruments he wielded with such delicacy. There were glass cups in a bowl nearby and the acrid smell of burnt wool told him they had cupped the wound to draw a poison.

Elladan seated himself beside Arwen on the bed and lifted the bandages. Arwen could not help the cry that flew from her lips as she saw the wound but Elladan smiled gently at her and Erestor could see the wound was deep but it no longer bled. Elladan nodded to one of the healers and made way for him so he could dress the wound afresh with long white linen cloths.

Erestor lifted one of the glass cups and picked out the burnt wool. He sniffed it, puzzled, for there was something about it that pricked an old memory: an underlying tinge of sharp bitterness. The unpleasant odour told him the poison had been at least based on belladonna but there was something else, something less common that he recognised from the Old Days. With a shock, he was plunged back, long ago, to the red and black pavilion of Caranthir, his long black hair, deeper black than any other Noldo, pulled back sharply off his fine face and piercing eyes. Caranthir had a way of looking at you that convinced you he could see into your soul; it was a pity he had not looked deeper into Ulfang's twisted and blacked heart, thought Erestor as he had countless times before. And cursed the ill luck that had allowed Ulfang to beguile the normally least gullible, most suspicious and perceptive of the seven brothers. The stink of this poison reminded him of Ulfang; he had coated his arrows in the same stuff.

It unnerved Erestor. How could anyone in the end of the Third Age know or concoct such a poison that he had not seen or smelled since the First? What devilry was this?

Elladan glanced over to Erestor replacing the glass cups carefully on the chest. Elladan's lovely face was serious and alert. He slightly dipped his head, acknowledging Erestor's thought. There were some answers Erestor would want from this Ghoul that was imprisoned in the Tower of Ecthelion, and who seemed to have overwhelmed the Fellowship, a new King, and the Tower guard. He was glad the Ghoul was under lock and key and that Glorfindel and Mithrandir were with Elrohir. But he, Erestor, thought that he would be the one to get information from it; neither Glorfindel nor Mithrandir knew the things that Erestor knew about how to unlock secrets. Although he thought that nothing was beyond Elrohir if he thought it would lead him to his beloved Legolas.

And that in itself was a tale, thought Erestor. He turned his gaze to the bed where Aragorn lay deeply asleep. Arwen knelt over him, her beautiful face agonised that she might have lost him.

When the dressing was done, Elladan sent away the healers so that Arwen could pull down her hood and hold Aragorn's hand in hers. Her eyes were anxious and fixed upon Aragorn's pale face.

'Onómë, Arwen' Elladan said softly. 'I have given him crystôl,' he said and Arwen jerked at the name of the drug. 'It was needed to fight the poison,' he said quickly. 'And you can see that he lies peacefully now. The worst is over but he may dream a little vividly.'

Elladan turned now to Erestor. 'I go to find Elrohir,' he said. 'Will you stay with Arwen?'

'No, Erestor said immediately. 'She doesn't need either of us. By the time we return she will have the whole kingdom shipshape and organised.' Arwen gave a little smile at his confidence in her and he patted her on the shoulder. 'That bloody Mirror is still lost and so is Legolas. I do not think the two unconnected and with Glorfindel blundering around, it is not entirely unlikely that if he comes across the Mirror we might well have more than some weird little ghoul and one missing elf to deal with, however brave and delectable.' He paused and looked at Elladan. But there were things from the dark and deep places that were better forgotten and lost…things that had been imprisoned for a very long time and that hungered for the freedom of Middle Earth. 'We nearly lost you in Phellanthir,' he said very softly for Elladan's ears only, for Elladan had shoved between Erestor and a morgul blade, and they had almost lost him. 'I do not intend to let either you or your supremely careless brother go anywhere near that Mirror. I will do that.'

0o0o

Gimli ran as fast as he could over the Rath Dinén and knew that Gandalf was not far behind. There was no way they could have kept up with Elrohir and Bearos for they had torn out of the Tower and the supernatural speed of Bearos must have tested even Elrohir.

But they knew it was the Hallows where Bearos would lead Elrohir. It was whereabouts in the Hallows that was the trouble. And Gimli guessed that Elrohir would not leave marks to show their passing in case Bearos saw them and knew he had been betrayed; even now, with the Oath Bearos had sworn to Elrohir, Gimli did not believe that he would take Elrohir to Legolas. The Ghoul that Bearos had become was treacherous and cunning. Gimli cursed and swore as he ran, convinced that Elrohir had lost his wits and followed the Ghoul to the same fate as Legolas.

The fog that had covered the citadel had trailed away and now was only over the Hallows, where it lay thickly as if to veil it from all intruders. Ahead of Gimli stretched the Rath Dinén, disappearing into the fog. But joy of joys! Standing upon the parapet of the bridge as if waiting, were two figures and it seemed as if the fog did not dare touch them and the sun glinted upon their swords and gleamed in their long hair. Gimli cried out in glad astonishment, for it was Glorfindel and Tindomión.

'Ah! Elladan told me that you had travelled together and they left you behind,' cried Gandalf gladly. 'But I did not hope that you would be here so soon! Well met indeed. But where is Erestor? I had hoped for his aid and what he might bring.'

Gimli glanced up at Gandalf for the appearance of the Elves was completely unexpected as far as he was concerned and the idea that Erestor too was in the city gave him sudden hope. For though the counsellor was as intimidating a presence as Gimli had ever met, he was quite sure that the Elf lord had hidden powers that could only be helpful.

'He has gone to lend his aid to Aragorn,' said Tindomión briskly as the Dwarf and Wizard came to stand beside them. Gimli humphed in disappointment that Erestor was not here and Glorfindel glanced down at him briefly, his expression unreadable. 'We were told Estel was sorely hurt by an assassin's blade and near death,' Tindomión continued. He shifted his sword in its scabbard and Gimli caught a glimpse of the finest workmanship, itched to see it more closely… but later, he promised himself. When he had Legolas safely locked away and tucked into bed so tightly he could not move.

'He was,' Gandalf said. 'But he is recovering thanks to his brothers.

'But now we have to find Legolas,' Gimli chipped in briskly. He felt this was all taking too long and Elrohir would be far ahead by now.

'Yes, we have been told as we passed through the city that Legolas has been taken by a Ghoul, and that the creature is captured and in your hands.' Glorfindel's fearless face was serious and his blue eyes that seemed to contain such great wisdom and joy as if he had gazed upon that which was most fair and it lived in his memory, were puzzled. 'And yet I feel the need to be here, for Elrohir calls.'

'Ah, good. You know then our quest,' Gimli said approvingly. He took a few steps away to chivy them along but Gandalf did not move. Instead he stood looking out over the Hallows with a faraway look in his piercing blue eyes. 'Well, we have no time to lose,' Gimli added. 'Elrohir is ahead of us. The Ghoul swore to show him where Legolas is but I do not believe him. But we are far behind for they ran so fast, and we need to catch up with him.'

'Ah. I see.'

Gimli glanced up at Glorfindel. He had travelled with the Elf lord to Phellanthir in that strange time before the quest and respected Glorfindel as he respected few others. But he seemed to be in no hurry either and stood waiting beside Gandalf.

'I assume that Elrohir or Elladan has told you about the Mirror that Gandalf brought from Minas Morgul, that it went missing and he and I went in search of it?' Gimli took a few more steps away as if he might drag them along by his will alone.

'No. We knew a Mirror was here. It is why Tindomión and I have come ahead.' Glorfindel stood alongside Gimli now but he did not look as though he were going anywhere without Gandalf.

'I will not waste words,' Gimli said, a little irritably, 'for Legolas is at risk every moment we delay!' he said more loudly.

'I am not merely wasting time, Gimli,' Gandalf said just as irritably. 'I am listening.'

'Well while Mithrandir is listening, perhaps you will tell us what happened, Master Gimli?' Glorfindel looked down at Gimli but he was not laughing. His eyes were serious and concerned and Gimli felt that if Glorfindel felt the need to wait for Gandalf to listen, then he should perhaps too.

'Suffice to say that Gandalf and I went out of the city, believing the Mirror to have been stolen,' he told the two Elves. 'We think now that it was merely moved and we were tricked. In that time, Legolas was lured to the Hallows and imprisoned. We have not been able to find him. We captured the Ghoul and have been questioning it to make us tell us where Legolas is, but until Elrohir came, it would not speak.'

'You think he lives still then?' asked Glorfindel.

'With all my heart and soul I hope he does,' Gimli murmured and Tindomión, who was close by, smiled slightly and said, 'Elladan said that you had become close.'

Gimli could not reply for his heart felt like it would burst.

'Ah. I have found them,' Gandalf said and shucked up his robes over his arm. 'They are indeed under the earth and in the tombs…I cannot find Legolas still,' he said softly. 'But I could not do so before anyway, and Bearos said he lived then. I can only think there is some spell that prevents me from finding him.'

Darkness was falling over the tombs and if Gimli had not been with the three elves, he might have balked at going there in darkness. Swiftly and within moments they had reached the mausoleum entrance, its heavy architecture loomed over them in the darkness. The tall doors were flung open, and one creaked heavily but did not close. The dimming daylight fell into the gloom and Gimli noticed that one of the four torches that lit the vestibule was missing. So Elrohir must have taken it, he thought.

Glorfindel lifted one of the other torches flickering in its sconce, and turned at first as if to hand it to Gimli but the look in the dwarf's eye made him pause and smile. 'I was once told by one who knew them well, that the sight of Dwarves in the dark is better than it is in the fair woods and meadows.' He had a faraway look as if reaching far back into memory. 'I, however, do not.'

Glorfindel's footsteps rang on the marble floor, inlaid and chequered back and white. He frowned and leaned down to peer at rust-brown marks on the walls, holding the flickering torch close to the marks and frowned.

Blood.

Gimli knew that Bearos had pursued his victims down here, crunched on their bones and drank their blood. There had been a child…

The deeper they went, the more pressure was in the air, like a charge was building, like something had turned its attention towards them and hurtled through Space like a comet. Tindomión paused once and grasped Glorfindel by the arm. 'You do not have to come,' he said urgently. 'You do not have to face it again. If something has been going on here and the veil is weakened, it could break through. And we do not know if Maedhros will, or can, come to our aid.'

Gandalf came to stand beside them and his eyes were faraway, looking deep. 'There is something else down here. Something less brutal than the Valarauki, but more sinister.' He turned his head to look obliquely at Glorfindel. 'It knows I am here. It knows you also. It turns its attention towards this place.'

But the Elf-lord merely looked him deep in the eye. 'We cannot leave Legolas here. We cannot ignore that he is down here somewhere and there is no one else and that Elrohir too may be lost.'

Gimli knew this path, he had travelled it twice now with Gandalf and led them with certainty, past the silent effigies, the low arches where the Stewards were buried.

At last, Gimli frowned. 'I searched here with Beregond only days ago and found nothing…' He paused. The fiery red torchlight cast their shadows huge on the walls of the tomb and etched new shapes in the darkness from the silent effigies of the Kings. He shuddered, knowing that Bearos had kept Legolas down here alone and afraid. 'Except I thought I heard something down there…' He indicated the narrow passageway that was rougher and less skillfully hewn than the other passages.

Glorfindel glanced down at him. 'I too can just feel something, although it is very faint. As if some sorcery is hiding him. But I know that Elrohir has passed this way.' He glanced at Tindomión who nodded briefly in agreement and Gimli thought that Elves must have some similar instinct to the Khazâds' ulkrelz. 'Where did you go?' Glorfindel asked Gimli.

'Here, I will show you.'

Gimli led Glorfindel along the narrowing passageway, as he had gone before. He let his fingertips run lightly over the stone, feeling, listening, waiting for the telltale fractures in the rock, the lingering sense of green-gold light dancing through the shadows, a fragrance of meadow-hay and sunlight…He thought he caught the edge of something and paused, but the same horrid sense of having missed something, of having come the wrong way suddenly assailed him and he turned anxiously, bumping into Glorfindel as he did.

'Where are you going?' the Elf asked. The flickering torchlight gleamed on the faces of the two elves and suddenly Gimli was afraid; their faces were beautiful and cold, unsmiling, otherworldly.

Gimli shook himself; this was Glorfindel, whom he trusted absolutely. And Tindomión who was a sworn friend of Legolas. He was suddenly glad Erestor was not with them, who looked vulpine and alien with his topaz eyes.

The sense that Legolas was not here but back the way they had come hit him once again. 'We have missed something,' he said anxiously. 'He is back there!'

'He is not.' Glorfindel grasped Gimli's arm so firmly that Gimli stared up at Glorfindel and blinked. It was strange; he had felt an absolute compulsion to return back the way they had come, that he had passed Legolas already, that he was suffocating in this dungeon of stone…He ran a little pattern of Iglishmêk upon the palm of his hand, unseen and secret but it cleared his mind. He paused and thought deeply. Then he nodded. 'Yes.' He looked up at Glorfindel. 'Yes, there is something turning me back. You do not feel it?'

'No, I do feel it. But I know it is a spell.'

'Then we draw close.'

Gimli pressed lightly on the rock, feeling with the pads of his fingers and letting the rock speak to him, of the cutting, the roughness of the tools, the carelessness… clumsy work the stone had endured.

He frowned and stopped looking with his eyes. He leaned against the stone and pressed his ear against it. He let his nostrils widen and took in the air.

Suddenly something. The air was different. Stale. A rank stink just teased his nostrils and he pulled back.

Go back.

He frowned. 'There is something down this passageway,' he said hopefully. 'It seeks to turn me back but now with you here, I am aware of it. The rock speaks of unclean words that have blasted it with sorcery and unnatural magic, gnawing at it like teeth, not the clean cut of blades and chisels.'

Gandalf held aloft his staff so a light glowed upon the walls of the tombs. The still effigies of long dead Kings glowed. And then they heard a sound: far off, down the narrow passageway that Gimli stared down, was the distant echo of iron on stone.

0o0o

Beyond the iron bars, the torchlight showed a cell carved roughly from the stone of the mountain. The deceitful warmth of the flickering torch lit the room, and there in the centre, was Legolas, his arms were pulled taut above his head, and Elrohir could see the strain in his muscles. the pain, the sinews stood out on his arms. His lean, hard body was stripped naked and stretched by chains that disappeared up into the dark. In the firelight, his long hair shone golden, sweeping down his strong back and the inked swirls and patterns coiled about his lean hips and trailed erotically down his thigh.

Elrohir gasped; it was his dream, his vision. This was his fantasy, the wicked dark lust that he thought he had tamed! This was for him! His fault. And then he noticed the hundreds of tiny cuts and bites over Legolas' naked body, blood smeared and almost indistinguishable from the ink.

'Legolas!' he cried.

Legolas' long green eyes lifted at the sound of Elrohir's voice and though he could not see him, he cried out in fear. 'Elrohir you must leave!' he rasped, his beautiful voice pathetically weak and hoarse. 'It is a trap! Please I beg you. If you love me at all, fly. Get out of here now!'

Elrohir threw himself forwards and gripped the bars.

'Look, look at him,' Bearos murmured ecstatically and Elrohir looked down at him suddenly for he had almost forgotten Bearos. 'Your Yôzâira. From your dreams, he comes. This is all for you.'

Legolas' lips had parted in a breath, and Elrohir grabbed at Bearos and dragged him upright. He wanted to rip the beast to pieces, wanted to tear his heart out. He brought his face close to the beast's and did not care about the foulness of its breath. 'Open it!' he hissed violently and Bearos grinned, his face full of wicked delight and he reached towards Elrohir and just stroked his arm. Elrohir jerked his arm back but Bearos looked upwards as if he could see power and sparks of energy released from his touch, like hot cinders from a bonfire. 'You will open this gate now,' Elrohir commanded through clenched teeth. Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke and he thrust Bearos towards the iron gate.

Legolas gave a hoarse cry of distress. 'No! Elrohir, no! ' he moved his head in agitation and his voice was urgent and raw as if he had screamed himself hoarse. 'Please! Elrohir please! If you love me at all, fly from this place. It is a trap. It is you they want.'

Elrohir did not care; if it was him they wanted and it would free Legolas, they could have him. He threw open the iron grille with a clang and stepped into the cell.

As the iron grille clanged open, Elrohir stepped into the cell, dark Aícanaro in one hand and holding aloft the torch with the other. Shoving the torch into a sconce upon the wall near the door, and leaving Bearos skulking at the gate, he rushed to Legolas. He clasped Legolas around the thighs, lifting him so it was he who took the weight and not Legolas' raw and bloody arms. He looked up but could not see where the chains were fastened.

'Eru! My poor Legolas!' Elrohir cried, looking up at his beloved's face. His heart felt like it was bursting in his chest with love and fury at what had been done. 'I have you!' he cried but he was shocked at how cold Legolas was, and how pale. His body twitched and spasmed. Blood was smeared over his torso and limbs, the strange cuts and marks, as if he had been cut many times. His poor hands and wrists were raw and bloody where the shackles rubbed him but his eyes half opened and fastened on Elrohir and the slightest smile tipped his bruised and swollen mouth. It wrenched Elrohir's heart.

'What has he done to you?' he murmured furiously. He looked about for Bearos, jaw clenched for he wanted to kill him. Through the gateway, the fiery torchlight glowed upon Bearos' bestial, elongated face and he drew back his lips and showed his long yellow teeth. Elrohir gasped, suddenly realising that whilst he had gone carelessly into the cell, Bearos had remained skulking and hiding without; he could so easily close the door. The Oath Bearos had sworn seemed insignificant and Elrohir cursed himself for his own stupid impetuosity.

'Elrohir …please.' Legolas' voice was weak, exhausted and trembling. 'I B..BEG you! L..leave.' His face was crumpled in pain and anguish. 'They want you…to release them …w…with Aícanaro.'

He barely registered Legolas' words so angry was he with himself for his own foolishness; he could not get to the iron gate before Bearos clanged it shut on them both and he could never, ever leave Legolas to save himself. Instead he searched the darkness of the cell for another way out and saw that something glimmered faintly, beyond Legolas.

Long, pale. Gleaming in the dark. Elrohir realised that it was Legolas' reflection as he hung suspended on those long chains, and his own reflection standing beneath Legolas, clasping the slender, blood-marked body and looking up like he was beseeching the Woodelf.

'The Mirror is here,' he breathed softly. The Mirror's frame fitted almost perfectly into the cell, covering the back wall and Legolas had been hung suspended in front of it. Elrohir frowned; like an offering, he thought. But to what? Not to Bearos, still lurking just outside the gateway for Elrohir could see his shadow flickering though Legolas was still unaware of the Ghoul's presence.

Something moved, fluttered in the Mirror. Something thin and black. It seemed to obscure their reflections momentarily, as if something was wrapping itself around them both but Elrohir could not see it or perceive it except in the Mirror. Soon, only the flickering torch near the door was still reflected, and then that too was gone, though Elrohir could see the torch perfectly well when he looked at the doorway. His heart gave a bound of fear and the hairs on his head stiffened. He felt Legolas twitch uncontrollably.

'G..get out of here… Th..they are coming. The Nazgûl.'

But Elrohir had known that already. When Bearos called him Ravéyön, he knew. 'I am not afraid of them,' he said defiantly, 'And I will not leave without you.'

There, to the left of him and half way between the Mirror and the iron gate he saw that there were heavy rings driven into the rock. Chains ran taut from these rings up into the darkness and, Elrohir guessed, ran through more iron rings above them and then to the shackles that held Legolas suspended. He could release Legolas if he could shatter the iron rings. 'I have to let go of you for a while,' he said softly to Legolas and Legolas groaned. 'I can see how to release you.'

'They will not allow it…Elrohir…'

'Just…Can you brace yourself? Just for a moment.' And slowly he let go. He heard the stifled moan as Legolas' weight was back on his raw and bloody wrists and as he let go, Elrohir flew to the iron rings and drew Aícanaro. He raised the dark blade and struck at the chains with all his might. Sparks flew and the iron chains buckled a little for Aícanaro was made from Elenalanta, the strange black metal that could strike through anything. Elrohir raised the sword and struck again and the iron rings gave a little more. Just a few more strokes, he thought but Legolas cried out and Elrohir turned.

Bearos had skulked into the cell and now crouched beside Legolas, looking up with cunning, malicious eyes. Reaching up tremulously with a greedy hand, he stroked one finger down Legolas' naked thigh, pressing one sharp claw into the skin so a bead of blood squeezed out. At his touch, Legolas let out a terrified whimper and shrank away. A sob broke from him. 'Eru! I beg you. Run! It is him! Their slave!'

Elrohir spun around and kicked Bearos away. He pressed Aícanaro to the Ghoul's chest. A drop of blood ran down the groove and pooled in the runes that curled over the blade.

'Do not touch him,' Elrohir snarled through clenched teeth.

'I have touched him over and over.' Bearos sniggered and licked his lips, his finger, the blood. 'I have his taste in my mouth forever.'

Elrohir held Aícanaro against the ghoul's neck, pressed so that blood beaded against the blade. 'I will kill you. You have sworn fealty to me but now you are worthless.'

Slowly Bearos crept closer to Elrohir, until he crouched at his feet, Aícanaro at his throat and there was an unearthly excitement in his eyes. 'I kept my word,' he said. his voice eerily soft, and it raised Elrohir's hackles. 'I brought you here. I did as I swore. Yesyesyesyesyes. But no escape for him. No escape for you.'

'Then I have nothing to lose,' Elrohir said bitterly.

'No. Nothing,' Bearos agreed and his jaw clacked and he gibbered uncontrollably. 'But there is one way.' His eyes glittered brightly, manically. He leaned against Aícanaro as if he did not feel pain or the sword's bite. 'I found it,' he whispered. 'I brought it here for you. It was always for you.' Elrohir stared at him but he felt the weight and warmth of the Ring nestling in the silk lining of his tunic, against his chest, against the beat of his heart.

A hiss that was not from Aícanaro seemed to echo around the cell, and the sound of dry coils shifting in the darkness.

Elrohir's gaze darted around the cell, he kept Aícanaro levelled against the Ghoul. But in the corner of his eye he saw that in the Mirror, something was moving. Black, thin, tendrils like smoke growing denser, twisting and spiraling about each other. He stared in horror as the tendrils grew denser, more frenetic. Legolas whimpered in fear and twisted weakly. There was a distant, muffled sound, like crows' wings beating against glass.

'Yeeeessss. It is the Brethren. They are coming. Yesyesyesyes!'

Elrohir stared, appalled to see that the Glass began to ripple, like grey silk. Legolas cried out and twisted in his chains and Bearos gibbered and shook his long head from side to side as if he were a deranged dog bothered by a fly.

'They want you. Yeeeesssssss….They want Aícanaro. He will release them!'

Elrohir stared at his sword. Hadn't Legolas said something similar? That Aícanaro would release the Nazgûl?

With a horrible realization, he saw that the Glass rippled again and then began to bowl outwards. Long tendrils of darkness twisted and swirled, coalescing into shapes like huge bats flapping against the Glass. Screeching filled the cell and their flapping wings pressed against the Glass. Nazgûl! They opened wide their jaws and shrieked so that Elrohir wanted to cover his ears, to block out the terrible sound. With an anxious glance at Legolas, he strode over to the iron rings once more and swung Aícanaro, intending that this should break the iron, split it asunder but as he struck, the Glass billowed around him, and his blade lightly touched it. He looked down in horror for the Mirror clung to him, pressed against him like wet silk and the Nazgûls' shrieks surrounded him, but he did not stop and the force of his blow finally split the iron and the rings sprang apart. The chains rushed through the rings but Elrohir saw too that splinters of the Glass flew up as if he had broken it too.

Only then did Bearos' words resonate: _Aícanaro will release them._

The splinters seemed to incinerate, glowed silver then blue, and he stared for a moment. Fine cracks appeared in that one place but it did not split. He watched breathlessly for he realised then with absolute certainty, that the Nazgul somehow intended that Aícanaro's Elanalanta, could cut through anything, and they believed it could cut through the Glass and release them back into the world of Men.

Intensely relieved, he turned back to search for Legolas through the screeching, and the grey Glass waves billowed, rushed around him like an incoming tide, pounded against the walls of the tiny cell like the sea against a harbor wall. But he could see nothing in the billowing grey silk. 'Legolas!' he shouted over the storm.

Elrohir turned, bewildered. An empty skull with burning eyes suddenly appeared before him, open maw screeching in his face and he fell backwards from the onslaught of the Nazgûl. The Glass sucked at him, a wet silk grey sea that churned and swept about him, pounding against him. In the storm of shrieking and the pounding waves of Glass, he heard Legolas screaming.

For a moment the waves parted and he saw Legolas struggling on his knees in a sea grey battered by the Nazgûls' huge winged shadows tearing at him, devouring him. The Nazgûls' shrieks merged with Legolas' screams. Elrohir tried to struggle towards Legolas, only a few yards distance, but the Glass surged upwards and clung to Elrohir, pressing over his face, his mouth and nose, dark tendrils wrapped around his neck and he thought this was it, the end. He could not move, could not fight his way to Legolas' side. Both of them would die.

 _Aícanaro_... A sibilant, triumphant sneer in the darkness. Angmar was there. _Aícanaro. You have come at last._

Angmar stood close, wrapping the darkness about Elrohir's face, his mouth, binding his arms.

 _You are lost. And we will devour your Yôzâira._

'No! You will not have him!' shouted Elrohir and he struggled against the choking darkness, the grey silk that clung to him, over his mouth and nose, suffocating him.

Do but draw Aícanaro, one sharp strike and all is yours, your Yôzâira as you desire him, dominion, power. An image of Legolas as Elrohir had found him, hanging, naked, powerless was thrust before him. I have given you your desire.

A heat pulsed at his chest and he suddenly remembered the Ring: Bearos had given it to him, an heirloom of his house, but Elrohir knew that was a lie. He knew what it was that nestled near his heart. Legolas was lost to him in the waves of the Glass and he knew he had no choice. He fumbled in the pocket if his tunic and found the Ring, jamming it on his finger. The red jewel gleamed like an eye and the Ring curled and coiled about his finger.

 _Ravéyön._ A long sigh, relief, triumph, elation. _It has taken much to bring you here._

About his own hand coiled tendrils of smoke, coalescing into the form of a serpent with red glittering eyes; the Ring.

Khamûl.

Angmar stepped back, triumph on his skeletal face and a horrific grin. Now, raise Aícanaro and break us free.

The Glass slowed and stilled, drew back to the Mirror as flat and still as a mill pond as if waiting for him to strike the Glass and free the Nazgûl back into the world. The Nazgûl had drawn back and stood in a semicircle in the Mirror, swords drawn. They waited for Aícanaro, and before them, Legolas knelt, hunched over and shivering uncontrollably, the chains pooled around him and gleaming.

Khamûl wove his snake-head side to side and the tendrils of darkness coiled about Elrohir's wrist.

 _They will devour him._

Khamûl's bitter eyes met his. In that moment, Elrohir understood all that was in Khamul's mind: he did not want the tyranny of Angmar. He did not want to be the Witchking's lieutenant, subservient, ordered, compelled. It was as much Khamul's desire that the Witchking remain in the Dark as Elrohir's.

He felt a strange tingling in his fingertips, that spread down into his hands, his arms and he raised his hand, seeing the Ring glow with fiery energy, a charge of Power, Power that was in him. It had blasted from him in times of great need, but he did not know how to unlock it. In the past, Elrond had wielded the Power that Elrohir had to heal Elladan when he had thrown himself between Angmar and Erestor and taken the morgul blade. Glorfindel had used it too, upon Amon Sûl to fight off the winged beasts of the Nazgûl.

But the Ring seemed to open a channel. He felt the charge building in him, the pressure and fury of it, and as the charge grew, so did Khamûl. Its serpentine body coiled about Elrohir's wrist, his arm, raised its flat head higher and its body became denser, more muscular. In the Glass, Angmar stood, broadsword resting before him and watching.

Suddenly the Ring opened up, blasted crimson Power against the Glass, and Khamûl, huge coils thrashing, jaw agape and fangs gleaming struck at Angmar.

There was a soft implosion of sound and the Glass was blown inwards, bowled inversely. Angmar was thrown back and Khamûl hissed in triumph and surged forwards, his coils denser, muscular. Elrohir felt sick looking at the huge snake. He felt the Ring's delight. It swelled with Power and urged him on and he raised his hand and summoned all his Power, channeled through the Ring and felt a huge surge, an orgasm of Power and hurled it into the Glass.

The implosion deafened him this time and threw him backwards. The Nazgûl were forced back and Khamûl piled his huge coils up and against the Glass and turned his flat head briefly towards Elrohir, beady eyes glittering in the red light.

Elrohir's heart was pounding hard and his breath came in loud gasps as if he had run a great distance. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath and a feeling of elation and great joy filled him. This is Power, he heard himself say. This is what it is like to be invincible, to protect your loved ones. This Power is here, in you. At last I have found a way to channel it.

But the Glass rippled and the Nazgûl gathered themselves.

 _Traitor!_ Angmar raged at Khamûl, and the Brethren as one, raised their black shrouds and battered the Glass, pounded against Khamûl. Their swords and knives drawn, and teeth and claws bared they attacked their former Brethren. Khamûl's muscular, sinuous body pressed against the Glass which raged against him, a storm of grey silk, viscous and fluid. It was buffeting Khamûl, whipping against him and pushing between his coils, leaked and squeezed and oozed, pushing apart the coils of the huge serpent and Khamûl pressed up against the Glass, fangs bared against the Nazgûl.

 _Traitor!_

Angmar pressed through the fluid Glass, old broadsword raised.

 _There will be no rest for you!_

The Nazgûl surged forwards together, striking at Khamûl's muscular body as it coiled and grew stronger, swelled. Elrohir saw that Khamûl's intent was to press the Glass back to the Mirror and to then contain the Glass. That would give Elrohir time to reach Legolas and escape. He did not wonder how Khamûl would escape. He did not care.

The grey swells of mist shifted for a moment and Elrohir saw Legolas he was kneeling, chains pooled about him. His skin was bloody, trickles of blood down his arms, shoulders, belly, thighs. A long cut was on his cheek. His head was tipped back and his long hair streamed behind him. He was beautiful. Arousing. Elrohir felt the shiver of lust and was disgusted with himself.

He looked away in shame and horror at himself and then he heard a snigger. Bearos crouched near Legolas, long strings of saliva dripped from his jaw and his hot red tongue lolled from his gaping mouth. He turned his hideous face towards Elrohir and licked his thin lips.

'You have my Ring,' he said angrily. 'But I have your Yôzâira,' he added gleefully. 'And I am very, very hungry.'

Elrohir launched himself at Bearos. Aícanaro came down hard on something and teeth gnashed at his skin, like knives. He grabbed the ruff of the Ghoul's neck and struggled to throw him off. But Bearos' sinewy, preternatural strength was greater than Elrohir's and he felt teeth sink into his shoulder. He punched the creature' muzzle hard and heard it yelp and let go. In that moment, he threw it off and drew Aícanaro and slashed down, saw and felt the hot red spat of blood. He kicked and punched and elbowed and kneed at Bearos, barely seeing him for the red fury that came over him. Suddenly Aícanaro was knocked out of his hand and skittered away. Elrohir felt his fists crunch down on Bearos' jaw but he felt the Ghoul clawing its way to his throat, its mad eyes, bulging and bloodshot, lips drawn back to show yellow teeth. Its jaw dropped and then it lunged forwards and he could not stop it. I will die, he thought. They will devour me.

Abruptly the stinking weight of the Ghoul had gone. He pushed himself up. Bearos had disappeared and a trail of blood led to the gateway of the cell.

Standing over him, breathing hard and utterly exhausted and trembling, was Legolas, looking as Elrohir had never seen him in any battle. His face was white and his hand trembled. In his hand was Aícanaro, the dark blade coated with blood but the grey folds of the Glass had squeezed through Khamûl's coils and begun to billow around them. The Nazgul screamed and dived at Khamûl who thrashed and struck his fangs again at the Nazgûl, driving them back again into the Mirror's frame.

Legolas' eyelids flickered and he lurched forwards. Elrohir caught him tenderly and took Aícanaro from him. Carefully gathering Legolas to himself, he half lifted his beloved Elf, half supported him, feeling how cold he was, how he trembled and shivered. Legolas stood, leaning heavily against Elrohir, clasping his tunic and gazed up at him rapturously.

'I tried to stop you,' he murmured deliriously. 'I didn't want you to come. I thought….' His teeth chattered. 'I thought they would p…possess y…you.'

Elrohir smiled and kissed him gently on his forehead but they could not linger.

'What h..have you d..done to ma..make them s…s…stop?' Legolas asked in breathy, frightened voice, glancing over his shoulder at the mirror. Elrohir frowned. How did he explain it? Did Legolas not see Khamûl fighting, pushing back the Glass? He realised then that Khamûl could not been seen. Perhaps Elrohir himself could only see the force, the Power that was Khamûl because he wore the Ring itself?

'I do not know,' he said with truthfulness, pulling Legolas closer to him as they took the few steps toward the cell door. 'Perhaps it is because Bearos has gone.'

Legolas looked round in sudden terror. 'He is not dead?' Abject and absolute fear was in his voice then and he shot a terrified gaze up at Elrohir. 'Quickly, before he shuts the gate!'

There was a mighty crash as Khamûl slammed against the Mirror. A terrible pounding against the Glass, against Khamûl came from the Nazgûl and their shrieking filled the cell so it felt like his ears would split. He heard Legolas cry out in terror but Elrohir did not stop. He did not care if Khamûl was annihilated as long as he got out of this dreadful cell with his beloved Legolas.

The iron gate swung slightly in the wind created by the battle between Khamûl and the Brethren. Quickly Elrohir kicked open the gate and they lurched into the dark passageway. He turned as they fled, pulled the Ring from his hand and hurled it towards Khamûl, clanging the gate shut behind him. _You can be your own master!_ he told it.

0o0o


	39. Chapter 39 Rescue

Beta: Anarithilen- who has contributed hugely to this story and whose nudges take me in different, and more interesting directions

Also special mention to Orodreth the Traitor whose fics about the Nazgûl are inspirational. . Also HUGE thanks to Spiced Wine for lending me her OFC, the very lovely Tindómion.

Notes: ósanwë. Some of Tolkien's ancient and powerful elves had the ability to do this- telepathy (noun) literally: interchange of thought

 **Chapter 39: Rescue**

When he heard the resounding clang of iron on stone, Gimli knew. 'It is this way!' he cried triumphantly, and he sped off down the narrow tunnel that had sought to distract and turn him back.

It was deep beneath the city. He knew because the air changed and there was great pressure. But there were sounds too, muffled and distant shouting, even a cry of anguish. And then an ominous BOOM. Running more swiftly even than the Elves, Gimli's feet flew lightly over the rocks and stone for it was underground, his element, and he sped towards his dear friend. Like an otter in a river or bird in the air, he thought, or an Elf over snow. Dwarves were fleet and sure beneath the earth, in the earth. It grew cold. He did not allow himself fear.

Ahead of him now was a red glow, reflecting on the tunnel walls, and the shouting was clearer, but there was a terrible, shrill screaming as well.

He knew that sound, like nails scraping on the chalk boards at the entrances of deep mines, where names were chalked of those who went in so in the event of a rockfall, rescuers knew exactly who was there.

Nazgûl.

He did not pause but his fists clenched around the haft of his axe. How could Nazgûl be here? He had seen Khamûl destroyed by Elrohir on the Mindolluin. Angmar had been slain by their brave Eowyn. And every one of the remaining Nazgûl had been sucked into the Void, into the Dark at the fall of Barad dûr.

Hefting his battle axe in one hand, he drew out a bronze and steel-toothed roulette from his belt with the other, flicked a finger over the teeth it so it spun easily. On the tunnel walls ahead the red glow intensified, and suddenly, there was an implosion of sound. It deafened him instantly and he stopped and, dropping the roulette, clapped a hand over one ear. He was aware of Glorfindel close behind, who also had slowed and was shaking his head as if to rid himself of a fly.

But Tindómion was further behind and seemed to escaped the deafness for he raced past Glorfindel and drew alongside Gimli, shouting something and waving them on. The red light ahead suddenly intensified and there was a deep BOOM, BOOM that even penetrated Gimli's deafness. The stone trembled as if something huge were pounding its way towards them. Gimli was thrown back to memories of Khazad-dûm when the drums began in the deep and his heart leapt in his chest. He paused for a moment, aware that Glorfindel too had stopped and Tindómion turned towards them. The light from Glorfindel's wavering torch reflected in Tindómion's eyes, silver, like molten mithril, thought Gimli and his hair gleamed like a river of molten bronze. Suddenly the red light ahead of them was quenched and Tindómion turned to look up the tunnel. He drew his sword and the torchlight poured fire over the runes upon the silver-blue blade. Gurthdur it declared itself. He braced his axe and followed the elven warrior as he edged forwards.

From behind them, Glorfindel's fiery torch threw their shadows ahead of them, enormous, and suddenly the passageway ahead was illuminated. Something was ahead of them, just beyond the edge of the light. It seemed to be lurching towards them, a strange misshapen thing. Lumbering from one side of the tunnel to the other, it was half falling against the stone wall.

Gimli braced himself; it must be the Ghoul, he thought and raised his axe bringing the haft against the palm of his hand, ready to strike.

Suddenly his ears popped softly and he could hear again. The shrieking had indeed stopped although the tunnel still trembled under a pounding BOOM BOOM. A scuffling came from the lurching shadow ahead and a quiet moan. It did not sound like a Ghoul. He heard the scrape of steel as Glorfindel and Gandalf drew their swords.

'What is that?' Tindómion whispered to Gimli.

Gimli stepped around Tindómion for his eyes were the best underground, and peered into the dark tunnel as the shape lurched forwards.

Suddenly he saw them. Not the Ghoul at all but Elrohir, and slumped against him, one arm thrown over Elrohir's shoulder and leaning very heavily, was Legolas!

Gimli gave a cry and rushed towards them, shoving his axe over his back and into its harness. He caught Legolas' dangling arm and hoisted it over his sturdy shoulder. 'You found him,' Gimli said unnecessarily but with such depth of feeling, appreciation that Elrohir gave him a slight smile. 'You have my axe for as long as you live, Elrondion. And my gratitude.'

Elrohir nodded exhaustedly in acknowledgment as the rest of the company gathered around them. Gandalf took off his hat, brushed it off and jammed it back down onto his head, and then peered down at Legolas' face with gentle concern.

'We cannot linger,' he said brusquely but Gimli knew that the Wizard was just covering his distress.

There was another BOOM from further along the tunnel and all turned their faces anxiously towards the sound. Small stones shook loose from the tunnel wall.

'What is that?' Tindómion turned to Elrohir but he looked away as if he could not bear the Fëanorian's gaze.

'We should move,' said Glorfindel and ushered them back along the passageway.

'I have cast a warding spell,' said Gandalf. 'It will hide us.' He tutted softly in pity as Elrohir and Gimli shuffled past him with Legolas half-carried between them.

Legolas' head hung loosely, chin towards his chest and Gimli felt wetness where Legolas' body brushed him as he shifted the Elf against him. He knew it was blood and only now did Gimli realise that he was naked, for he felt how cold was his skin and he only had Elrohir's tunic slung hastily over his shoulders.

'Here, we need cloaks and warmth before we go anywhere,' he said.

Tindómion cast his own cloak around the unconscious Woodelf. Gimli thought a tenderness was upon Tindómion's face and wondered at this for he did not recall any great friendship between the two. It was then that Gimli felt the shackle that was clasped about Legolas' wrist and the heavy iron chains that trailed from it. A small growl of anger escaped Gimli, and he gently cradled Legolas' arm, felt along the chains and realised that Elrohir carried the weight of them. Beneath the shackles, Legolas' skin was slippery with blood.

'He cannot go far with these shackles on him,' Gimli said angrily. 'I can almost certainly free him and that will make it easier for both him and us.' He glanced up at Elrohir. 'Whatever that thing is,' he nodded his head towards the BOOM, BOOM that shook the tunnel, 'is it going to be here any time now, or can we spare a moment so I can free him?'

Elrohir clenched his jaw. 'I do not think they can break free of the Mirror,' he said quietly and Glorfindel glanced briefly at Gandalf.

'It is the Nazgûl then? Gandalf sighed unhappily. 'They have come to the Mirror, are on the other side but trying to … What? Escape?'

Elrohir nodded. 'They needed blood. The Ghoul had hung Legolas in front of the Mirror.' He swallowed as if it was hard to speak. 'They were feeding off him…somehow…through the Glass. It had become…viscous.' He choked then.

Gimli could not bear to think of it. 'Then we have time to get these abominable chains off him,' he growled and jerked his head towards Glorfindel's cloak which he obediently took off and laid it on the ground. Gandalf took his own cloak off and laid it over Glorfindel's.

A sudden thunder rolled through the tunnels from the cell and all of them looked up anxiously, first at the roof of the tunnel and then back towards the cell. Gandalf swore quietly under his breath.

Gently, Elrohir lowered Legolas to the cloaks and then eased him back so that he leaned against Elrohir's chest. Tindómion took the flickering torch from Glorfindel and held it closer so Gimli could see what he was doing. Gandalf moved beyond them, further up the tunnel, but Gimli paid them no heed for he was looking at the locks on the shackles.

'Hm. A wafer lock,' he muttered to himself and sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of Legolas, he flipped the toe cap of his boot off, and dug about in the narrow compartment in the sole of his boot, pulling out a tiny slender silver torsion wrench. He fumbled in the compartment again, searching for a narrow screwdriver.

While he did this, Glorfindel unstoppered a silver flask and leaned over Legolas. 'Sip this, gently now.' He held the flask to Legolas' bruised lips that were almost blue with cold. He only allowed Legolas one sip, then another.

Legolas moved slightly as he tasted the miruvor, and cracked open one eye, dull and pained, but when he saw it was Glorfindel, his poor swollen and bruised mouth opened in a soft gasp of wonder.

Glorfindel quirked an eyebrow and smiled back. 'Welcome back, child,' he said softly. 'You have done well. Your people, your father will be proud.' And he patted Legolas' shoulder very gently for the Woodelf's skin was marked with a hundred cuts and little slashes beneath Tindómion's cloak and Elrohir's tunic.

But Gimli saw Glorfindel flinch a little when he saw the wounds, and when the Elf-lord straightened and drew away to confer with Gandalf, his eyes were full of pity, but they blazed with anger too that such cruelty had been done to Legolas. Gandalf bent his head towards Glorfindel as they stood together further up the tunnel, talking softly and listening to the Nazgûl raging against the Glass and pounding against their prison.

Gimli ignored the sound of the Nazgûl, instead he carefully, gently fitted the slender wrench into the lock and fiddled, listening to the clicks and obstructions, to the way the pins were arranged. Meticulously he picked each pin and twisted. In his head, though he was cursing the Man who had done this to his friend. Bearos. The Ghoul. And the Nazgûl of course. And thinking of the ways he would kill the Ghoul when he, Gimli Gloinsson, caught up with him if Elrohir had not already killed him first.

At the sound of Gimli's quiet muttering, the slightest smile slipped over the corners of Legolas' bruised mouth and his eyes showed a seam of leaf-green beneath the thick fringe of lashes. A breath whispered from his lips. 'Elvellon.'

Gimli felt his eyes prickle and he blinked hard. 'I can't leave you alone for five minutes but you get yourself into trouble,' he said, his heart bursting in his chest. But Legolas did not answer. There was a deep, resonant pounding from the cell. Something huge moved within. It…they… wanted to get out. Gimli hoped very much that Gandalf and Glorfindel were right.

He was aware, although he did not listen for he was focused upon unpicking the lock, that Glorfindel spoke softly now to Elrohir and that Gandalf was listening attentively, asking a question here.

Within moments, the lock clicked open and he was able to slide the shackle from one wrist and then, knowing the precise pattern of the pins in the lock, it was easy to unpick the other. Beneath each of the shackles, Legolas' skin had deep abrasions and was bloody and raw. But it was nothing to the cuts and wounds that were all over his arms, chest, belly and thighs. Gimli pressed his lips together in anger and pity for his poor friend.

Legolas groaned quietly as the second shackle slipped from his wrist and Elrohir cradled him with tender concern.

'Hush, beloved,' he said soothingly. 'You are safe now.'

Legolas opened his eyes and gazed up at Elrohir with absolute adoration, absolute trust. His bloody fingers caught at Elrohir's and Elrohir held Legolas' hand so gently, as if it might break.

'Lift him, gently,' said Elrohir and Tindómion leaned between Elrohir and Legolas so that he could slide his arm beneath Legolas' shoulder and help to lift him. Legolas' gaze was drawn to Tindómion's face, and when he saw who it was, he gave a small, astonished smile for he had not yet seen who his rescuers were. But Gimli was watching Elrohir: in that moment, his face transformed, from tender compassion to intense anger, jealousy.

So, thought Gimli, there is something between Legolas and Tindómion. It could only have been between their return from Phellanthir and the time the Fellowship left, he thought shrewdly. A few days at most. So nothing meaningful…Much like Haldir…and Eomer…And that servant in Rivendell. There had been other even briefer dalliances on the way, much to the Hobbits' astonishment, concern from Sam and wide-eyed , open-mouthed admiration from Pippin and Merry. Gimli was certain that Elrohir knew about Tindómion. Clearly. But briefly he wondered if Legolas had spoken of any of the others to Elrohir. And thought he probably had not.

Suddenly there was a shrill scrape of steel; Glorfindel drew his white sword that gleamed in the darkness. The Elf lord stepped in front of the group and held aloft their single torch so light fell into the tunnel ahead. 'Declare yourself,' he called into the darkness.

'Glorfindel!'

Elrohir gave a glad cry for it was Elladan. He appeared suddenly out of the darkness, illuminated by the torchlight. Behind him was Erestor, dressed in outlandish clothes, thought Gimli, that were elegantly cut and dashing and dreadfully exotic.

Elladan strode forwards and hugged Elrohir with an intense relief but careful not to jostle Legolas, and then pulled back to look at his brother. 'Fool, going off with Bearos like that and not a word to me!' As he spoke, he cast a healer's eye over Legolas.

'I had no choice,' Elrohir said but he smiled. Then he said with anxiety, 'Estel?'

'Is recovering. He has a new nurse to take care of him.' Elladan smiled but did not say who the nurse was so Gimli wondered if the Hobbits were looking after him. He enjoyed the thought of Merry and Pippin squabbling over feeding Aragorn soup.

Glorfindel sheathed his sword and turned to Gimli. 'Gimli, will you go with Elrohir and Elladan, take Legolas back so he can be attended to.' Glorfindel turned to Erestor and began to speak but the counsellor held up one hand with great authority.

'I will stay to guard the Mirror.' Erestor gave Gandalf a wicked grin. 'I promise not to lose it.'

Gandalf looked irritated at the jibe and to Gimli's great surprise Glorfindel did not protest and Gimli thought he knew it was probably not worth it. He recognised stubbornness when he saw it; he had seen it in Legolas. And Aragorn. And Pippin. And Gandalf. In fact the whole Fellowship were remarkably stubborn at times and had it not been for Gimli's silky diplomatic skills that all dwarves had intuitively, he thought, (apart from Dwalin. And Thorin of course.) the Fellowship would never have left Rivendell.

As if he knew what Gimli was thinking, Erestor gave Gimli a flash of white teeth and the torchlight reflected for a moment in his amber eyes, making Gimli think of a wolf that had once padded into the firelight of his little campfire, looked at him and melted back into the forest.

'How bad is he?' Elladan was asking and Elrohir was about to reply when there was a monumental pounding, BOOM BOOM BOOM that went on for several minutes relentlessly and Erestor and Elladan looked about themselves in alarm.

'We have been hearing that getting closer, the closer we came to you,' said Erestor.

'It is the Nazgûl trying to escape the Mirror,' said Glorfindel briefly. 'The Ghoul brought them to the Mirror from the Other Side, used Legolas as bait it seems.' He shifted uncomfortably.

Suddenly Legolas twitched and his head rolled back, his breath was loud and rasping. Elrohir immediately put his hand on Legolas' cheek and turned the Woodelf's face towards him. 'Legolas?' he cried loudly, panicking. 'Legolas, open your eyes. Can you hear me?'

Legolas raised his head wearily, blinking owlishly at Elrohir and squinting at him as if he were trying to focus on the other's face. Elladan lifted the Woodelf's arm and pressed his own fingers lightly against Legolas' wrist. 'His pulse is erratic. Is he still losing blood?' he asked Elrohir urgently. Gandalf's cloak fell open and the bloody wounds could be seen on his torso.

Suddenly Legolas spasmed and his head rolled back against Elrohir's shoulder. 'He is falling into unconsciousness!' cried Elrohir frightened. 'We need to get him back to the city. Now!'

'Go on,' Glorfindel said to Elrohir urgently 'Take him to the Houses of Healing. Get yourself seen to as well. Go! Gimli- go with them.' Glorfindel pulled Gandalf's cloak over Legolas again as he barked out orders . 'When you get there, Elladan, send a message to Beregond that we have found the Mirror and for him to send a troop to guard it and to help us search for Bearos. We will begin the search and leave marks so they can find us.' Without a trace of irony he added, 'Erestor will stay here to guard the Mirror until they arrive.'

Elrohir and Elladan had already moved away, carrying Legolas between them and Gimi followed anxiously. Legolas was drifting in and out of consciousness and murmured something that Gimli could not hear but the Dwarf was suddenly afraid that even after all this, they might still lose him.

Elladan looked back over his shoulder. 'Will they be safe?' he asked. Gimli turned his head and saw that Glorfindel and Gandalf stood talking intensely, and Tindómion stood with them. But Erestor stood a little apart, further down the tunnel and looking with intensity towards the cell. The tunnel shook and the reverberations brought more little stones skittering loose of the roof, bouncing off the walls, off them.

'The roof will not come down if that is what you mean,' Gimli replied for he knew in his bones that these tunnels would not cave in. 'But the Ghoul is loose down there and I would not wish to be on my own there. It overpowered Legolas after all. And he is no weakling.'

Elladan seemed to hesitate and he half turned back. But Elrohir urged him on. 'We must get Legolas into the warm, Elladan. He is in shock and to lose him now will break me utterly.'

But something about Elladan's face made Gimli wonder if losing one of their companions that they were leaving behind in the Tombs might not break Elladan in the same way.

0o0o

The glamour that Mithrandir had cast about them held. Glorfindel could feel it like a veil of starlight cast over them and he could see it still over the three Elves and one Dwarf as they slowly disappeared back towards the city. He glanced at the iron slab that was shut over the cell. The Úlairi still raged within though their prey had fled and the tunnel thundered every now and again as they were beneath the sea and the tide roared above them. Something huge was throwing itself against the Glass, he thought. Or the walls themselves. Were the Nazgûl so substantial, so present in the Dark that they could cause such a tremor in the earth?

'Will it hold it?' Tindómion asked cautiously, coming to stand next to Glorfindel. But Tindómion had not been to Phellanthir. He had not seen the Glass bowl and stretch under the battering from the Balrog, Ruinátoró. His beautiful face was pensive and he rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword, Gurthdur. The sword glittered even in the darkness of the tunnel, for it too had been made by Celebrimbor and perhaps it remembered the hands of its maker, perhaps was offended by the corruption of the Mirror by the Nazgûl.

Glorfindel rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was becoming fanciful. The effect of the Mirror perhaps. In Phellanthir, he had seen Erestor's memories, knew his thoughts and certainly did not wish that to be visited upon him again. Nor did he want to be seeing Tindómion's, or Mithrandir's memories.

'The Glass will hold as it did in Phellanthir. There is nothing in there now to keep the attention of the Úlairi here,' he said boldly. But as if to contradict him, there was a resounding BOOM that shook free small stones in the roof that skittered down over their heads. He saw that Elladan had stopped and was looking back towards Erestor, one hand outstretched as if reaching for him. And then Gimli moved between them and the small group continued, disappearing slowly into the dark.

'But they know this is the doorway,' Tindómion said pointedly, continuing the discussion.

Erestor grunted agreement. 'They will not simply pack up and leave, Laurëfindë.' He leaned over and smoothed his hands over his flamboyant thigh-length boots.

Glorfindel suppressed his annoyance at the use of his old name. Erestor did it deliberately. 'I do not expect them to,' he said sharply, ignoring Erestor's smirk. 'Nevertheless, they cannot break through.' He did not look at Mithrandir as he said this. He did not say that Elrohir had told him about Angmar's belief that Aícanaro could cut through the Glass. Nor did he tell them that the blade of elenalanta had chipped the Glass. He had shared that with Mithrandir only, and now the Wizard glanced at him briefly.

'I have put the same warding spell upon the one in Phellanthir as this one,' Mithrandir said assertively. 'And the Glass has held in Phellanthir.' He tapped his staff impatiently upon the stone floor. 'Now. I suggest we follow the trail of this Ghoul whilst it is still fresh.'

But even as he spoke, quite suddenly, the pounding stopped.

The silence.

Glorfindel felt the hairs on his neck prickle. He held his breath, aware of his companions' stillness, alertness. The Úlairi may even now be sliding through a tear in the fabric of the Mirror, slipping out of the Glass like smoke.

Nothing.

In the absolute and eerie silence, the distant rumble of Gimli's voice rolled back through the stone tunnels.

It was Tindómion, unusually, who broke the tense silence. 'I felt the stirring of others even in the chaos of the Úlairi,' he said softly. He glanced at Erestor first and then Glorfindel. 'Elrohir said that he saw only Angmar and his brethren, but in Phellanthir, there was the Balrog.' He did not say there was Maedhros also but it hung on the air unspoken, heavy with accusation.

'The Úlairi are not alone in there,' said Erestor defiantly.

Tindómion turned, hand on his sword. He leaned in slightly towards Mithrandir and his long hair streamed down his back. 'Who else is in there, Mithrandir? Morgoth?' he said aggressively. 'Apart from my kin, that is.' His eyes burned silver-bright. 'My kin whom your lords banished to that dreadful place.'

Mithrandir did not speak and Glorfindel began to protest that it was hardly fair to blame Ólorin but Erestor interrupted. He stood, almost leaning towards the iron slab of a door, as if listening.

'Yes.' Erestor cast over his shoulder. 'My lord Maedhros is there. Certainly. Cast into the Dark by the Valar.'

Glorfindel threw a look at Erestor, irritated that he was fueling Tindómion's anger with Mithrandir, as the Valar's representative. 'You do not know if he can come to this Mirror or if he is somehow bound to Phellanthir. Why didn't he come to Legolas' aid as he came to ours?'

'Because he has no connection with Legolas. Perhaps he could not sense Legolas' need? He does not know him,' Erestor said quickly and Glorfindel tutted and shook his head. 'It is true,' Erestor said assertively. 'He came to Phellanthir for me…For me.' His voice was soft. He smiled at Tindómion. 'If it was you in danger, he would have come here for you. Of that I am sure.'

'You have no way of knowing how the Mirror works, Erestor,' Mithrandir said grumpily and Glorfindel could not blame him. 'Come, we do not have time to stand here all night arguing!'

Tindómion had breathed in sharply. It was clear now that he would not abandon this hopeful aside but seek an understanding, even if he would join the hunt he would not leave until he was satisfied. He was so like Feänor sometimes, it hurt. Now he asked, 'Was it only Maedhros? Of all the Elves, is he alone in there?'

Ah, thought Glorfindel with compassion. It was Gil he longer for. He sighed. 'Yes, we saw only Maedhros.' He glared at Erestor for feeding Tindómion's hopes.

'It is not Maedhros coming here that alarms me,' Glorfindel said sharply. 'So much Power and energy focused in this one small space has already attracted attention. We have all felt Him turning towards this place.'

Erestor nodded far more cheerfully than Glorfindel thought he had any right to. 'I know you are right, dear Laurëfindë.'

'And much as I would like to taunt Morgoth, tease and torment Him, I intend to stay well away but on guard.' He gave Glorfindel a look . 'You know this is the only way.' He grinned irrepressibly. 'And you have a Ghoul to hunt. Why are you waiting? You are like an old washer woman! Go.'

Tindómion and Mithrandir were already moving further along the tunnel. Tindómion knelt and looked down at the floor for the Ghoul had been bleeding and there were splashes easily seen in the torchlight.

Glorfindel tried not to grind his teeth at Erestor's irritating jibe. He misgave Erestor's staying to guard the Mirror but to leave either Mithrandir or Tindómion here was to court Morgoth for He would know Ólorin was here and would sense the blood of the House of Feanor in Tindómion's veins. Erestor had at least witnessed the power of the Mirror in Phellanthir and knew how dangerous it was. Glorfindel hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should tell his old friend that Elrohir had struck the Glass, but his fear was too real that Erestor might lose his reason and actually try to summon Maedhros and release him from the Dark. He shared a look with Mithrandir, who shook his head slightly to reinforce Glorfindel's own judgment.

Glorfindel nodded at Erestor. 'Very well. But you must promise me two things.'

Erestor grinned irritatingly. 'Anything, Laurëfindë.'

'First, on no account are you to go in there or lurk outside the door or be within fifty feet of it. Your task is to guard the door and make sure that the Ghoul does not return here.'

Erestor bowed elaborately, clearly enjoying the lace that cascaded from the sleeves of his blue velvet coat. Glorfindel thought he looked ridiculous. 'Secondly, you are not to try and capture or fight the Ghoul if it appears. If it does, then you must stay hidden and wait for Elladan's reinforcements. They should be here soon.' He hesitated, thinking that perhaps he should risk it and leave Tindómion, or that he himself should stay.

Erestor raised an insouciant eyebrow. 'Laurëfindë,' he said tartly. 'I hope you are not questioning either my valour or my ability to hide?'

Glorfindel suppressed a sigh. He was unusually anxious about leaving Erestor but Erestor was not some untried warrior. But neither was Legolas, he reminded himself. He took a step towards Erestor and clasped his shoulder. 'This is no Orc,' he said firmly. 'This thing tricked Legolas, overpowered him. You will stay hidden and you will not tackle it yourself should he return before us.'

It was Erestor's turn to look irritated. 'I am not a fool, Laurëfindë. I do know how to keep watch and not be seen.'

Glorfindel held his gaze and nodded slowly. 'Be safe, old friend.'

'Get gone, old fool.' But there was affection in Erestor's voice too. He gave Glorfindel a little shove towards Mithrandir who had turned to wait. Tindómion was already a little way ahead.

'He has gone this way,' Tindómion said, touching the dark stain on the rock. 'Come!' With a look at Glorfindel and Mithrandir, he set off, his feet swift and sure over the rock and Glorfindel followed him, Mithrandir close behind.

They followed the Ghoul's tracks down a narrow passage that led off from the main passage and then another. Glorfindel left marks on the stone, scratching a sign with his knife on the rock, knowing that Elladan and Erestor would know it. Tindómion knelt frequently to look at the blood stains, touching them with the tip of his finger.

'These are not yet dry,' he said, looking up. 'The Ghoul must have fled this way before we arrived.' He glanced at Glorfindel.

'We might still find the route he takes into this place then,' Mithrandir said, hitching up his white robe for he had given his cloak to Legolas. 'At the least we may find his hiding places and set a trap.'

The torchlight flickered slightly, so their shadows rippled on the walls.

'That air current is from outside,' Tindómion said in a low voice. 'Either there is another egress going to the outside, or he must have opened a door. It is this way!'

Glorfindel doused the torch then and nodded Tindómion onwards.

He led them swiftly, fearlessly through the darkness. An underground stream ran across the tunnel at one point and the walls grew wet and slimy. Suddenly there was a dim watery light.

Tindómion turned, his eyes glittered silver, hard. He said nothing but Glorfindel knew there was an answering gleam in his own eyes for they both wished vengeance upon the wickedness done to Legolas. More silently now, they edged forwards. Glorfindel touched the stone wall of the tunnel, felt it was mossy, damp. He looked up to see that they were emerging through a cleft in the rock, and ahead and above them was the moon. He breathed. That was the source of the light, not Bearos.

He was about to speak but Tindómion silenced him with a cut of his hand. Instantly the three of them froze.

Glorfindel peered over Tindómion's shoulder. They were emerging into the wilderness about the Hallows, the rocky outcrop covered in gorse and wild heather, pale stone boulders covered in lichen dotted about the mountainside and there was the sound of running water and beneath their feet was mud, not stone.

Tindómion dropped to one knee and peered at the ground, then touched it.

'Tracks here. Something long-footed, dragging one foot…or paw. I know not. Newly made.' In the moonlight his eyes glittered.

Mithrandir nodded. 'That is Bearos. He is no longer a Man, but truly a Ghoul, a creature of the dark. If he is ahead of us, we might still catch him with the three of us.'

Glorfindel nodded. 'Tindómion, just edge out there and listen, look. Your scouting skills have always been exceptional.'

Tindómion nodded once and disappeared. Glorfindel knew he would be standing, hidden in the open air, but the glamour cast about him would be like a net of mist. He would listen, to the shift of the air, to the slightest scrape of a foot or hand, or claw. He would see the trail of movement, for Tindómion had a gift beyond that of other Elves; he knew this well for he himself had mentored and nurtured Tindómion even in Lindon when he was companion, and more, to the King.

It was a moment only before Tindómion called to Glorfindel through ósanwë.*

He is here.

An image appeared in Glorfindel's mind, given him by Tindómion. Something moved ahead of them, over the hillside opposite, slowly, unsteadily. Clawing its way up the hillside towards the city wall.

There!

Glorfindel looked at Mithrandir. Mithrandir nodded, acknowledging that he too had seen the images. 'That is indeed Bearos. His sight in the dark will be exceptional. And his hearing and sense of smell is that of a wolf I think. He will know as soon as we give chase.'

'Then we had better be swift and silent.'

0o0o

It did not take long for Gimli and his companions to emerge from the Hallows and in no time, he was following the three Elves slowly up the steps into the Houses of Healing. They had acquired an escort now of Cendir's men who surrounded them with quiet concern for they had all fought alongside Legolas in the siege of the city and searched for him too to no avail. Cendir himself was leading a troop into the Hallows to join Erestor in guarding the Mirror. Gimli noticed too that Arduin had been with them.

Immediately the Elves and Dwarf appeared, a small swarm of brown-robed healers gathered around them like concerned bees. They talked in soft, quiet voices that did not alarm but when they tried to take Legolas from Elrohir, he gripped the Woodelf more tightly. But he was almost too exhausted to walk himself and Elladan gently prised him away from Legolas and allowed the healers to take the Elf whilst he supported his brother into the calm quiet of the Houses of Healing.

Gimli followed somberly. He could see how Legolas spasmed and twitched even on the stretcher that was carefully borne upwards into the same room he had stayed in when they brought him back from the Mindolluin. It was unfair, thought Gimli, chewing the end of his beard anxiously, that the Nazgûl were so determined to have him as their victim. He thought the two incidents not unconnected and it was no coincidence that Elrohir was both the aggressor and the saviour. The cuts and wounds too were almost identical. Almost as if the Nazgûl were replicating the scene. Was there something else going on here, he wondered? It was almost a scene from a play, staged for the benefit of some audience.

At that moment, Elrohir moved between Gimli and Legolas' stretcher. The Elf-lord seemed to lurch a little and Gimli frowned. Elrohir seemed to move differently. He slouched a little and his limbs lacked their usual grace.

But he had been beating back the Nazgûl in that pesky Mirror, he thought generously. No wonder he looked different. Yet he had almost snarled at Tindómion when he came between Legolas and Elrohir.

They had laid Legolas carefully on a soft bed and were removing the cloaks and tunic. One of the healers, a woman who appeared soft and gentle but Gimli remembered as steely and insistent, ushered everyone but the sons of Elrond and two healers from the room.

'Even your iron stare, my lord, will not move me and you must be content with trusting me to make the lord Legolas comfortable,' she said. And so he had to do as she said and remain sitting in an antechamber and waiting.

It occurred to him to send a message to the House of the Fellowship, and then more grudgingly, to Aragorn for they would be so relieved to know that Legolas was recovered. A boy was passing and Gimli called him over.

'Here, would you earn yourself a penny?' he said. The boy narrowed his eyes calculating and Gimli sighed. 'Two then.'

He sent the little mercenary off with a hurried note and two coins for his trouble and Gimli settled down to wait.

While he waited, he put his mind to tracking through the events of the past few weeks and piecing together what he did and did not know. And gradually he worked out the events…but what he did not know was why Bearos would only speak to Elrohir.

What was it that he had called him? Ravion? Raveyon…no. There was an emphasis -Ravéyön.

Gimli nodded to himself thoughtfully. It was the name Legolas had given him when they were on their way to the Morannon and Legolas was still recovering from the last assault by the Nazgûl. Gimli still thought Legolas should not have been allowed to go with them but he admitted the Elf had been useful.

So Bearos had already been possessed, or in communication with the Nazgûl, he thought. But how? He had stolen the Mirror, yes, so maybe that was how…But how did Bearos, who had but lately come from the Mountains and was not in Ithilien, know about the Mirror?

Scratching his head, Gimli pondered. Bearos must have come with knowledge. He must have had some contact with them before…but this was not like the Easterlings or those Men who had served the Nazgûl or Sauron. He had been changed…

He must have had something.

And there was that nagging sense too that this had repeated the incident on the Mindolluin, that it had somehow been staged. But that meant it was for someone's benefit. And who could that be?

Gimli slowly rose to his feet and rested on his axe. He always thought better when he was doing something.

Searching Bearos' house seemed a good idea.

0o0o


	40. Chapter 40 Bearos

Special mention to Orodreth the Traitor: I am sure I have been influenced by her work with regard to the sense that the Nazgûl were somehow enslaved. And continuing thanks to Spiced for the loan of her gorgeous OC, Tindómion.

As always, thanks to my very wonderful Anarithilen, beta and muse!

CHAPTER 40: Bearos

Glorfindel stood hidden amongst the boulders and scrub of the wild hillside that sloped up towards the city wall from the creek at the bottom of a chasm. He and his companions had climbed swiftly through the gorse and scrub, spreading out so he knew that Tindómion was away to his left and Mithrandir to his right. He could hear the beast creeping slowly up the hillside. He could taste and smell the greasy slick on the air from its hide, the old blood on its mouth, caught beneath its claws, the stink of its breath, and its breath was heavy and its stumbling, shuffling gait told him it was in no state to offer a fight. Even so, it had teeth and claws and maybe other weapons. And it was desperate.

It is not an Orc, Glorfindel had said to his companions. No. It was worse. Orcs were stupid. They did not question or care about their inbred cruelty. This thing had enjoyed what it had inflicted. But it was still a Man.

Silently, his blade slid from its sheath. Not a sword. This was knife-work. The blade gleamed hungrily but he dulled it so it could not be seen.

There was movement suddenly to his left and he turned slowly so that the Ghoul could not see any disturbance. Tindómion had sent him an almost imperceptible signal that the Ghoul had slowed and stopped.

He eased round a scrubby gorse bush to get better sight of the Ghoul.

What he saw was a Man, dragging one foot and his shoulders hunched. The Ghoul suddenly caught sight of Glorfindel. Its face surprised him in its normality apart from the deadness of its eyes. It simply registered him but there was no expression.

And then there was a slice through the air, singing steel and the Ghoul's head slowly toppled from its body. Tindómion stood behind him, breathing hard, eyes wide and his sword bloody.

'I thought it would have you,' Tindómion said. He swiped the air twice with his sword and dark drops of blood slid from the blade leaving it clean.

Glorfindel leaned down and lifted the Ghoul's head by its short cropped hair. Its face was human, stupid, ugly but not ghoulish.

Tindómion frowned. 'That was much easier than I expected,' he said. Glorfindel hummed an agreement and looked at the face of the Man Tindómion had killed.

'Perhaps whatever spell or sorcery was over it was fading,' he said cautiously.

At that moment, they heard Mithrandir hurrying towards them.

'You killed it! Well done, my friend.' He pulled up beside them, breathing a little harder than they. 'Well. That is done. I think we can return now. It will ease Aragorn to know that his city is safe from this creature.' He nodded down at Glorfindel's grisly prize. 'Not what I usually advocate, but in this case, I am glad to make sure it is dead.' He leaned on his staff to catch his breath. 'Right. Let's get back and let Beregond know and send a message to Erestor that he can return.'

'What shall we do with this?' Glorfindel asked, holding the head up.

Mithrandir's face went white and his eyes widened. 'Wait,' he said breathlessly. 'This is not Bearos.'

'What?' Glorfindel stared at him. 'What, who is this then? And where is the Ghoul?'

'I do not know who this is, or what,' replied Mithrandir. He looked down at the headless torso.

'What was he doing here?' Glorfindel asked horrified. 'Have we killed one of the Ghoul's victims?' He noticed then, the long gash in the Man's side, like talons or claws had ripped him open.

Tindómion's face was aghast. 'I did not know!'

'He is wearing the badge of Bearos. Wait…I know him. He was one of those who sought to overthrow Aragorn. Urithôr I think,' Mithrandir said, peering at the headless torso. He shook his head and looked at Tindómion with sympathy. 'Let us hope that he was doing Bearos' bidding. Perhaps this was deliberately done to make us follow this unfortunate fellow and allow Bearos to escape.'

'Then where is the Ghoul?' Tindómion asked in a low voice.

Glorfindel turned his head to look back down the hillside towards the cleft in the rock from which they had emerged. 'He could be anywhere. He may not even have left the tombs.'

Slowly their eyes met. 'Erestor!'

'He is alone in there' Tindómion cried and he was already running swiftly back down the hillside towards the cleft in the granite cliff that led back beneath the Hallows.

Glorfindel leapt over scrubby bushes and rocks, overtaking Tindómion in his haste. Although Erestor was a formidable warrior and there was far more to him than met the eye even, this Ghoul had supernatural strength, had cunning, knew these tunnels well and had overpowered Legolas, not once but twice. Erestor was in danger.

0o0o0o0

In the deep quiet of the crypt, Erestor shared a low plinth upon which rested one of Gondor's long dead Kings. He had not bothered to see the name. Old bones in little piles crumbled almost to dust, encased in stone tombs. Crude letters scratched upon the stone tomb in a language almost forgotten. Erestor had never bothered to learn it certainly.

He wondered why they bothered.

Quietly and silently he sat, dampening the glimmer of his fëa, cloaking his Song, suffocating every trace of his presence so that none would know of his presence. The Ghoul. Nazgûl. Bauglir. None would know he was there. He had learned the art long ago in the Woods of Ossiriand when the armies of Morgoth hunted every last survivor of Himring, of Thargelion, of Dor-lómin. Relentlessly. Determined to wipe out every last drop of Feänorian blood, every last one of their followers. It amused Erestor to have outlived Morgoth Bauglir, in as much as you can outlive a god. It was ironic, he thought and not for the first time, that Bauglir and the Valar shared a purpose for Namó's prophesy had been nothing of the sort: it had been a curse.

With that bitter thought he waited. Absolutely still, absolutely silent. He was imperceptible. A mere trace of breath in the dark. But he listened and watched with an intensity honed through the Ages. For in the moonless nights and the dark places of the Hithaeglir and Thargelion, there was nothing to watch. So he listened. And he did so now.

He let his awareness spread out through the catacombs. The darkness in these tombs was not the same as the Dark. This darkness in which Erestor waited, was merely underground, and the sun and moon did not reach this deep. But beyond that door, that slab of iron that was slammed across the cell where Legolas had been imprisoned, was a Glass that held back the Eternal Dark. The Night. The Void. Whatever you cared to call it, he thought. And that was not simple in any way.

Celebrimbor had said it was more than 'nothing'. He had been trying to explain how Erestor's own Ring worked, a gift, for Erestor was close to those beloved children, Elros and Elrond, and one of the last followers of Celebrimbor's doomed House. It was one of the lesser rings that were made in Ost-In-Edhil. Not one of the great Rings of Power, of course, but it had its own Power nevertheless. 'This,' Celebrimbor had said putting the unobtrusive Ring in the palm of Erestor's hand, 'will help you to see.' And when Erestor put it up to his eye and peered through it, Celebrimbor had laughed. 'No,' he had said. 'To see.' He pushed it onto Erestor's finger. 'To see what is Unseen. And to hear what is Unheard.' He had laughed then. 'Otherwise how can you be any good as a spy?'

Erestor tapped his teeth thoughtfully. Then he cocked his head to one side and wondered what he would see if he peeked into the cell where the Glass was.

In the dark silence beyond the Glass, Erestor knew the titanic Presence had turned towards the Mirror, like a leviathan moving slowly in the darkness. Moringhotto Bauglir. The Enemy.

Not the Nazgûl. The Nazgûl were flies to this great darkness and besides, they were trapped behind the Glass. He did not fear them, mere shadows now looking out through the Mirror. Although they had sucked on Legolas' blood…He pondered that for a moment. But they could not escape.

. Erestor stared towards the iron door to the cell. Moringhotto was not the only one in there of course….In Phellanthir, Maedhros had come. He rubbed his chin and considered what he had said to Glorfindel.

You promised Glorfindel not to peek, the better-part-of-himself reminded the less-than-good-half. But the less-than-good-half shrugged, used to winning these arguments with his better-half, rose and flattened himself against the iron door anyway.

He felt the Nazgûl, quiet now. Perhaps they were merely waiting? Or perhaps they had exhausted the energy they had gained from leaching Legolas' strength?

With a grin, he flung open the iron door and grasped the iron bars of the inner gate that barred the way to the cell. Inside he saw the Glass, a soft silver radiance at the far end of the cell, undulating slightly as it had in Phellanthir. The Nazgûl were dark shadows in the Glass, settled and gathered in one place, attentive and listening, like the tall mysterious standing stones upon the Barrow Downs.

So they have not gone yet, Erestor thought.

'I hope you are enjoying yourselves in there,' he whispered softly.

At the sound of his voice, there was a movement of air and the Nazgûl's dark shapes fluttered like agitated birds. He didn't care. They were stuck in there and could not reach him.

'Any moment now, you are going to be obliterated,' he said cheerfully. 'Morgoth is coming and you are just flies on shit to him.'

He was about to turn away and slam shut the door when he felt something. A bigger shift in the air, a slither of dry coils.

He looked more carefully then and slid one finger over the gold and bronze of his Ring. His perception altered and he looked again, as Celebrimbor had shown him.

Inside the cell, pushing up against the Glass was a layer of smoke or mist that he had mistaken for the shimmer of the Glass itself. He narrowed his eyes and it coalesced, the smoke was one long, muscular and sinuous coil, piled up against the Glass. A flat head was turned towards him, but its eyes, like drops of blood, regarded him with malice.

'Khamûl.' He was genuinely surprised.

The forked tongue flickered over its lipless mouth. 'Nármöfinion.' It was almost civilized if it hadn't been so full of hatred, thought Erestor.

Erestor bowed slightly, hand over his heart in an ironic and sarcastic salute. 'I think you are on the wrong side of the Mirror,' he said sweetly. 'Your Brethren are over there.' He tilted his head. 'I am tempted to say that it looks as if you have gone to a very great deal of trouble to keep them there.' Then he bowed gallantly and with a flourish of his flamboyant lace sleeves. 'I wish you joy of each other. And be sure to give my regards to Moringhotto when he arrives.'

He slammed the iron slab of a door shut quickly. What did that mean? Khamûl curled up cozily against the Glass. Was he trying to release his Brethren or keep them there? And how was it that Khamûl was on THIS side anyway? Surely the Nazgûl had been swept away with Sauron's fall? He leaned against the iron door as if he might contain Khamûl.

Mithrandir's spell must be holding, he thought, for he was sure that otherwise Khamûl would have pursued him.

And then he felt the hair on his arm prickle and the air moved softly in the crypt behind him. He could feel the warmth of blood, the beat of it in veins. He felt dissonance in the Song, thrumming the wrong notes, stringing the wrong chords together a cacophony of sound.

The Ghoul was here. Bearos. It must have doubled back, slipped away from Glorfindel. He wished he had insisted that Tindómion stay now, for he had not anticipated Khamûl. But he was alone and had to simply make the best of it. He hoped that it was indeed the strength of Mithrandir's spell keeping Khamûl in the cell, he did not like the odds if Khamûl chose to come to his slave's aid.

Erestor did not move. He widened his nostrils, smelled the dried blood on the Ghoul. Elvish blood smelled different from Men or Dwarves. He half closed his eyes and listened, spread his awareness over the air. A slight brush of coolness against his left arm -the air disturbed by the Ghoul's movement.

He let his teeth shine in the dark, thinking how annoyed would Glorfindel be to have let this thing slip through his fingers, wishing that he had not. Best to get it over with and quickly, he decided.

There was silence. But an alert, charged silence and he knew that the Ghoul was listening too, was close.

He could feel its breath.

'Come. Let us finish this and swiftly,' he said softly. 'You have been clever to shake off hunters such as Glorfindel of Gondolin and Tindómion of Lindon. But now you have returned to Erestor Nármöfinion, of Himring and Imladris.' Slowly he allowed the glamour to fall away and he revealed himself, rose slowly to his feet and there was the Ghoul, within striking distance. 'You should feel honoured.' He grinned.

It was shocking nevertheless, even to one who had seen Balrogs and werewolves. But their power and raw energy was terrifying because they could destroy you. The Ghoul was terrifying for the horror of its making; a Man's eyes, but bulging like something writhed and fought in its brain, forcing the eyeballs outwards. A Man's face but elongated, distorted into a muzzle. A Man's torso but taller, stretched and pumped into something more of an Orc. With a Man's cunning. With a wolf's coarse hair.

He swallowed the horror and looked more carefully, this time using his own Ring. There was an absence on the Ghoul's hand. A white band was around its long, clawed finger where once it had worn a ring.

Ah. There had been a Ring.

Khamûl.

Of course. That was how Khamûl had survived; somehow the Ring itself had survived. But where was it now?

'You are not the only one to possess a Ring of Power. Celebrimbor made many, and gave them to those he loved.' Erestor opened his hand and the ring on his own hand gleamed. He hazarded a guess and kept his voice soft. 'You had Khamûl, but now he had abandoned you.'

'I found it,' the Ghoul spoke. Its voice was harsh and fast, and its jaw clacked when it got excited. 'Yesyesyes! It was mine. It brought me here where there is so much blood. Bloodblood yeeeessssss.'

The Ghoul watched him with its bright, bulging eyes that were full of hunger. Wicked glee… But underneath, there was confusion… betrayal? It reminded him of Sméagol, of course, but bigger. The same sinewy strength, the same conflicted love and hate. The same hunger. Erestor narrowed his eyes for now it crept slowly forwards until it was crouching on the other side of the sarcophagus by which Erestor stood. The beast stank. It watched him gleefully.

'Elf blood. Elf fëa. That is what my Master really wants. Forbidden before but he is free now.'

The Ghoul crept around the edge of the stone tomb towards Erestor, its maddened eyes fastened on him. It was bigger than he expected, its rough matted hair was grey and its muzzle was long, hands long-fingered. He had seen something similar once before, a long time ago on Tol-in-Gaurhoth. He held himself utterly still and did not move but he knew where his knife was, how sharp. How quickly it would leap into his hands.

'It will please him. Elven fëa. Yesyesyesyesyes.'

'I hope you do not think to feed me to Khamûl. That is hardly polite.'

The Ghoul froze, its malicious eyes fastened on Erestor's and he dared not blink; his eyes did not flicker or change. He kept his amber gaze steady. It was close enough now to smell its foul breath, like old and rotting meat. Salty and bloody. The little capillaries in its bulging eyeballs were red like it had not been able to sleep.

Close. Closer, it crept. One hand on the edge of the sarcophagus so it was now on the same side as Erestor, one hand over the other it edged towards him, never looking away, haunches bunched to leap for his throat.

Erestor was absolutely still. Only one way to grab a dog, a wolf.

Suddenly he shot one hand and grabbed the creature by the scruff of its neck and the other lay his knife against its throat. Faster than a snake. Faster than a wolf certainly.

'Choose.' He smiled thinly. 'You may speak or stay silent. Then I will release you.'

The Ghoul gibbered and hissed but it did not struggle and did not move for the knife was sharp enough to cut silk and the Feänorian blade was as thirsty for blood as the Ghoul.

'Khamûl. The Ring. Where is it now?'

The Ghoul sniggered but it sounded, to Erestor, like a sob. 'It is where ii has always wanted to be. Safe, safe. Yesyesyes.' A string of thick white saliva hung from its jaws, red frothed through it. Its teeth clacked together horribly. 'But YOU! You think that your _Aphanuzîr_ is safe.' The Ghoul sniggered again. 'But he is not.' He gave Erestor a sly and malicious look. 'Not from you.'

Erestor frowned. He knew better than to ask what the Ghoul meant, for it wanted to be obscure, to confuse and distract. So instead Erestor let the blade slide very slightly along the coarse grey hair of the Ghoul's neck. Beads of dark red blood slipped along the gleaming blade.

 _Aphanuzîr?_ Did he mean Elladan? How could this creature know? But Khamûl did not know the secrets of Erestor's heart.

For a moment, the briefest moment only, he blinked: did Khamûl know the secrets of Elladan's heart? Elladan had hovered between this world and the Unseen when he took the morgul blade meant for Erestor in Phellanthir. Had Khamûl rifled through his heart then? Hope surged in his breast and in that moment of distraction, the Ghoul's haunches bunched and it leapt.

They went down, tumbling together, teeth and claws ripping into Erestor, he grasped its snout and wrenched hard, brought his other arm up and plunged the knife as hard as he could into its sinewy belly, pulled hard so the knife slid out gleaming wet and bloody. There was horrible growling and snarling. Teeth sank into his arm and talons clawed at his face. He slashed the knife as hard as he could across the beast's throat.

Hot blood spurted over his hands, shot up and spattered his face so he had to pull back for a moment. The Ghoul jerked horribly in his hands, its eyes staring up at him in shock and he saw…..

… _. The pit into which he had fallen closed around him like a mouth, swallowing him. He had worn his fingers to the bone trying to scrabble at the sides as it devoured him. But that had just made it easier for the Ring to transform his hands into talons, claws._

 _A scream tried to force itself from his chest, clawing its way out like a trapped animal looking up towards the light that he could no longer reach. That slow scream started in his throat was strangled by a long shadow that reached into his mouth, forced itself down his throat and crushed his chest, his heart…._

 _Marinel! He tried to scream to his wife. I am in here! Gerda!_

 _But they could not hear him for the snarling of the Beast that kept him trapped and that paced and sneered at him whenever he screamed. It gnawed on his bones, tore at his sinews and heart and his skin could not contain It._

 _He wanted to roar. He hurled himself into the night. His feet pounded the stone and he ran so fleetly, like he had last night, muscles pounding, sinews stretching beyond what was human, bones cracking and twisting into something he was not. His blood pounded and thrashed in his veins as if it wanted to escape. He felt the Thing in him, the Beast, writhing for release and he shook his head from side to side as if he might shake free from this skeleton, this skin and let the muscles in him expand as they wanted._

 _Deep inside the Pit, Bearas felt himself slipping deeper, falling away until he was staring up and the sides of the Pit was a long tunnel of polished Glass. Then he let himself fall and he was gone. Completely._

 _But now as his eyes dimmed, he remembered he had wanted to make a pair of gloves for his little daughter, rabbit skin ones for they would be soft and warm on her little hands that clasped his. He hoped Marinel had gone, hoped she had fled with Gerda and the baby and that he had not committed the worst of sins. He did not know. He could not remember…And now it was dark and a sob broke from him. But in the dark, a strong hand clasped him. Warm. It was filled with light and hope. It held onto him though he sank, and sank into the emptiness._

Erestor looked down at Bearos' dead body. The long fingered, taloned hand clasped his still and he felt its fingers relax and slip from his as the bulging, mad eyes glazed in death. He wondered where the soul of the Man, Bearos, might go, or if it went where a Beast might go? Its head was almost severed from its body and coldly, he cut it off. Too often werewolves and vampires could live on if the head was not cut off.

Erestor now looked down at the Ghoul's long fingered, taloned hand. More claw like. But no Ring. Not now. The white band he had noticed earlier showed where it had been. He frowned. Had Bearos given it up? He did not think so. Not easily. Then where was it now? It had said the Ring was where it wanted to be, that is was safe. And Elladan was not safe, not from Erestor himself. He sighed. He was always on his guard with Elladan. He would double that.

Then he felt the change in the air. A current of warmer air drifted. A door had been opened. He did not move.

The air shifted more steadily. Sounds reached him. Voices.

He listened to the steady footsteps, a slight jingle of steel. Hearts beating a little faster in excitement and fear. Feet a little slower.

Men. From the Tower Guard, he guessed for Glorfindel had told Elladan to send a relief for him.

He called to them and they hurried towards him, their faces alert and concerned when they saw his bloody coat and sleeves. One of them that Erestor remembered from when they arrived, seemed to be in charge.

'My lord, are you harmed?' he asked first. Cendir, Erestor remembered his name now. He shook his head.

'No. I am unharmed. But this is the creature that has been haunting the city and kept Legolas prisoner.' He found himself breathing harder than he had realised. 'Bind the body nevertheless. I have seen such things even in death strangle a fellow. Keep the head separate from its body.' He moved the grisly thing with one foot. 'Actually, give me a sack or something and I will take it somewhere away from the body.' One of the men hastily took off his cloak and handed it to Erestor. He swathed it around the head and tied it securely whilst the men hauled the Ghoul's body onto the stretcher they fashioned from pikes and cloaks.

He wondered briefly if he should post a further watch on the Mirror. But Mithrandir's spell had held, he said, in Phellanthir, and there was iron twice bound. And he knew that the Ghoul had deliberately chosen iron for magic; sorcery could not break through it. Although Erestor knew it was because the nature of iron was impervious to Tumnalómë. The Nazgûl could not escape the cell anymore than Legolas.

But the Ghoul was dead. The Mirror recovered and guarded. And yet, the Ring was still at large, somewhere, Erestor thought. Did someone have it? Or was it lying somewhere, waiting, like it had for Bearos?

0o0o


	41. Chapter 41 Restoration

Thank you to my wonderful beta, Anar.

Also to Spiced Wine for lending me the very gorgeous Tindómion.

 **Chapter 41:Restoration**

As it was, Gimli never got to Bearos' house for as he was about to leave, the door to Legolas' room was flung open. Elrohir thrust his head out and looked about wildly. He caught sight of Gimli and breathed a sigh of relief.

'I thought you might have gone,' he said urgently. 'He is asking for you.'

Immediately Gimli scrambled to his feet feeling an absurd pleasure that Legolas was asking for him.

Inside the room, it was quiet and the fragrance of athelas suffused the air. Gimli wondered if they used it for everything now in these Houses since Aragorn had arrived. The windows were wide open and the night sky was crowded with stars. On the bed, Legolas lay beneath a pile of blankets, his head turned towards the window and Gimli thought he must be drinking in the night air and the sight of the stars, having been stuck in that dark underground cell for so long.

There were two brown-robed healers bustling about, one dropping bloody bandages into a bucket and the other was folding clean linens that had not been used. Nearby, Elladan and Elrohir were busy, talking quietly and moving things around on a narrow table that was on wheels so it could be moved about and closer to patients when needed. Their backs were to Gimli so he could not see what they were doing but he heard the clink of metal implements and their quiet, urgent voices, though they spoke in Sindarin and he could not follow.

Elladan glanced over his shoulder though, and when he saw Gimli he nodded to the Dwarf and switched to Westron. '…this is the best they could pull together. Not sophisticated but it will serve.'

Gimli pulled a chair up to the bed and Legolas' face turned slowly towards him, eyes half-closed and his face deathly white. He was trembling uncontrollably and every now and again a spasm took him and his whole body clenched.

But a smile touched his bruised mouth and he opened his lips slightly as if he might speak but no words came. Gimli leaned towards him, tears blinding him for a moment. He took Legolas' hand, pulling up the blankets and tucking him in more warmly.

'Hush, silly Elf. Don't speak. Let me get you water.'

One of the healers passed him a cup and poured water into it, smiling as he did. Gimli nodded his thanks courteously and turned to Legolas.

He had to lift Legolas' head and hold the cup to his lips and water dribbled down the side of his mouth. The other healer quickly leaned in and dabbed gently at Legolas' mouth, for he was so very weak from blood loss. But at least he was swathed now in bandages and there was no blood spotting the new ones.

'Have you stopped the bleeding?' he asked and the healer sighed and looked distressed.

'We have, but only just. He has lost a lot of blood…' He glanced at the brothers who still had their backs to them. 'They have magic healing,' he said, awed.

Gimli thought it was less magical and more scientific for he had observed them on board the Sea Song when they had stitched up Legolas last time. But he said nothing. He wanted them to concentrate on Legolas. The healers picked up their buckets and clean cloths, and bowing, left.

Another spasm shook Legolas and Gimli held him, soothed him until it passed. His teeth were chattering. Fear made Gimli unreasonable and he turned his head and growled, 'Here, are you two going to do anything or are you faffing about over there all day?'

'Peace, Gimli. We are coming,' said Elladan softly.

Gimli swallowed hard and turned back to Legolas. His teeth were chattering.

'You have got to stop going off without me, Legolas,' Gimli scolded fearfully. 'Every time you do, something bad happens. Look at Phellanthir, when you went off into the Tower on your own. And then when you went off onto the Mindolluin,' he said more quietly with a quick, nervous look over his shoulder at Elrohir, for Elrohir had gone with Legolas at Gandalf's behest (and Gimli still had not completely forgiven the Wizard for that particular idea.) 'And what about when you left my side at the Morannon? What happened there?' He tutted. 'And now, off you go in search of the Ghoul and not telling anyone where you'd gone. There is a pattern here, Legolas. You should have waited for me to come back.'

Legolas closed his eyes slowly, but smiled. His hand squeezed Gimli's but so weakly it frightened Gimli.

'I was worried to death you know.' He pulled the blankets up higher and glanced again towards the brothers, wishing that whatever they were doing, they would hurry. By rights Legolas should have been boiling hot with all the blankets but he felt so cold.

They were turning, now, talking softly and adjusting things on the trolley. Elrohir rolled it towards Gimli and onto the other side of the bed. There was a strange contraption on the trolley; a tube that ran from a glass, with something Gimli recognised as a pump in the middle, with a silver cup. At either end was a fine needle.

'Talk to him, Gimli,' said Elladan. 'Keep him calm and steady.' Elladan positioned himself one side of the trolley and Elrohir pulled up a chair on the other side and close to Legolas.

Gimli turned obediently and leaned towards Legolas. 'I have much to tell you since you traipsed off on your jaunt without me,' he began. 'Gandalf and I went to Umbar. You would have enjoyed it…' He rambled on, keeping one eye on what the Elves were doing and one eye on Legolas, who seemed calmer with Gimli's deep voice rumbling.

Elladan looked carefully over the contraption, picking up each part and testing it. He pushed the needle more firmly onto the tubing and fiddled about with each part until he seemed satisfied. 'I think we have done the best we can, given they have nothing here,' he said to Elrohir. 'When this is over, we must look at equipping their healing wards properly and teaching them. None of them had ever heard of this.'

Elrohir merely grunted and was rolling up the sleeve of his shirt.

Gimli realised he had stopped talking to Legolas and was too busy watching Elrohir. 'Anyway, we arrived in Umbar,' he began again, guiltily. 'Gandalf was disguised as a sailor and had this…rolling walk,' he remembered. 'It is a strange place. Full of exotic scents, pipeweed like you have never seen, great swathes of silks rolled up and stacked in market stalls, herbs I have never seen before and the noise of a hundred different languages. It was exciting I admit, Legolas. We will go there sometime.'

'You speak of the Aït ben Hazsrou,' Elladan said, swabbing Legolas' skin on the underside of his forearm. 'It is vast, and as you say, exotic. Full of strange things.'

He glanced over to his brother. 'Are you ready for this? You should rest really and I give.'

Elrohir nodded briefly. 'I am not as skilled as you. And I have never used such….basic equipment,' he gestured to the contraption. 'Just begin,' he said tersely.

Elladan glanced at Gimli and then back to the contraption. He picked up the needle, looked at it, pushed it again firmly into the tubing and then tapped Legolas' arm where the vein was. Then he inserted the needle into Legolas' vein. Gimli gasped silently but said nothing for he trusted they knew what they did. Elrohir reached over and steadied the needle in Legolas' vein.

Elladan then steadied the pump and cup part of the contraption and inserted the other needle into his own brother's arm. Elrohir did not even flinch.

'Gimli, would you assist?' Elladan asked and Gimli shuffled forwards and took hold of the cup part of the contraption that Elladan handed him. 'Please, just steady this and make sure it is well above Legolas' arm. The blood will pass through the cup and tubing and then into his vein.' Gimli nodded and looked with interest at the contraption. Elladan turned back to his brother, slight concern edged his lips. 'We cannot wash the blood for there is no device here to do that, but I hope that your blood is pure enough to help him and rich enough to replenish him as he needs. There were no issues with Saeldir or Annael when we did this.'

Elrohir nodded briefly. 'Take as much as he needs.'

Elladan pressed his lips together. 'I will take what I can. You are already exhausted.'

'Take what he needs, Elladan. You have no idea!' Elrohir snapped back but he did not say what it was that he thought Elladan did not understand and Elladan did not ask.

'Calm, brother,' said Elladan and looked gently upon Elrohir. 'We want a low pressure, not a racing pulse.' And that seemed to have the desired effect for Elrohir breathed in and then let out a long sigh and he said no more.

Gimli watched avidly. He had heard of this from Ori, who was much travelled and had seen this blood-giving in the Havens. But Ori had been vague about the mechanism, much to Gimli's annoyance. Now he scrutinised the device and how it worked, storing away the design for his return home.

Fascinated, he watched the blood being drawn from Elrohir's veins by the pump and transfused into Legolas'. For a long time, deep red blood pumped slowly from one Elf to the other and a silence descended on the room. Every now and again, Elladan checked first on Elrohir and then on Legolas.

Gimli noticed a subtle difference in Legolas as the blood pumped from Elrohir to Legolas but at last Elladan took the cup from Gimli.

'That is enough,' he said but Elrohir shook his head.

'I can give more,' he said.

'Legolas cannot take much more right now,' said Elladan. 'And I want to see if there is a positive reaction before continuing.' With certainty he took the needle first from Elrohir's veins. 'I know we have done this successfully before in Imladris, but we do not know how Legolas will react.' He carefully bound the small incision. 'Let us observe and try again in an hour or so…Perhaps Glorfindel will have returned and we can use him too.'

He was looking down and so did not see the expression on Elrohir's face; devastation, contempt, disgust. And Gimli wondered if it were for himself for he had only ever seen respect and affection between Elrohir and Glorfindel.

Elrohir was a mire of conflicted heroism and self-sacrifice, thought Gimli, as well as violence and unforgiving hatred. And he was not always rational or fair. Perhaps that extended to himself as well as others?

The Dwarf stroked his beard, and then found his fingers tangling it into a knot as he worried: when the Grey Company*, searching for Aragorn, had found them that night in Rohan, Elrohir had shown nothing but contempt for Legolas, and his antipathy had exploded into violence on the pier at Pelargir.

Gimli pulled at the knots in his beard. Elrohir's violent dislike had lasted until Legolas was brought back down from the Mindolluin and been almost lost. Only then did Elrohir's attitude change.

Perhaps he had seen then the sacrifice that Legolas was willing to make for the Fellowship, to ensure that Frodo and Sam crept unseen and undetected into Mordor? Gimli thought. He let his gaze drift down to his friend's face, soft in a proper slumber now. At last. Legolas' hand rested gently on the blankets and Gimli touched those strong fingers gently for fear of waking him. Not strong like his own hand, which was square and shaped for the forge. But strong enough to pull a hundred pound draw of the great bow of Lorien. And Gimli did not know many who could do that with the ease that Legolas did.

Elladan stood over the trolley now, pulling apart the contraption and putting the soiled tubes and cups into a silver basin. His brother still sat beside Legolas, his eyes fixed upon the Elf's face as he slept.

Gimli rubbed his eyes. It was true that Elrohir had sacrificed himself without thought at the battle of the Morannon, and had taken the dreadful Black Web to himself in order to spare Legolas. There was no doubt now, in Gimli's mind, that Elrohir would have laid down his life if it had been necessary to save Legolas this time.

But the devoted adoration that was in Elrohir's eyes now was as extreme as his contempt, thought Gimli, watching him surreptitiously. It made Gimli wary for he thought that Elrohir would be a jealous and possessive lover… And Legolas was not.

In fact, Legolas had been prolific and indulgent in his love affairs throughout the quest, thought Gimli anxiously. He found the ends of his beard in his mouth. He really hoped that Haldir would not be in the wedding party from Lothlorien. Or his brothers. And that Berensul was not in the party from Rivendell. It was bad enough that Tindómion was here and Eomer would be returning for the wedding too.

Elladan leaned over and checked Legolas' pulse, lifted his eyelids, scrutinised him carefully.

'How is he?' Elrohir asked and his voice sounded weary now.

Elladan sighed and shook his head. 'He lost so much…'

'Then take more!' Elrohir cried and he ripped the binding from his arm but Elladan placed his hand on Elrohir's shoulder.

'I have said, we will wait. And you must rest. Eat, sleep and then we can try more. He is better than he was before the Tarnasercë, brother. He will not die now; his pulse is weak but more regular now and his signs are improving.' He looked at Elrohir. 'Whatever you say, I will not take more and put you at risk.' He was already gently sliding the needle from Legolas' arm as he already had from his brother. And indeed, Gimli thought Legolas looked healthier already and he had stopped the dreadful trembling and spasming of his limbs, although his teeth chattered a little.

Gimli pulled up the blankets again and patted Legolas' hand. He called upon the warmth he used in the forge, to smooth iron and steel like silk, let it suffuse his hands that he cradled Legolas' within. Unexpectedly he felt a slight squeeze from Legolas' cold fingers.

Elrohir's eyes were fastened upon Legolas' face, scrutinizing him for any sign, every movement.

There was a quiet flurry of voices outside the chamber door and a healer opened it slightly. 'My lords, one of the lords Perianath is without and asking if he might enter.' The woman smiled. 'Says he is returning a favour.'

'That will be Sam,' Gimli said, half rising but Elladan patted his shoulder and pushed him back into the chair, and was already moving towards the door.

Outside stood Sam, clutching in his hand a bunch of cheerful wildflowers. It cheered Gimli's heart to see the Hobbit's round little face and his earnest and concerned eyes that alit upon Legolas' still form.

'Hello Gimli,' Sam said. He hurried to Legolas' bedside and ducked his head shyly at Elrohir. 'Will he be all right? Did you find him in time?'

'I hope so, master Samwise,' Elladan said, wiping his hands on a towel. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and leaned over Legolas, lifting his hand and feeling the pulse at his wrist. 'He seems to be stronger. We will wait for a while and then give him more blood.' He glanced over at his brother briefly. 'There are several of us who can do this now,' he said emphatically. 'But I want to see how Legolas responds first.'

Sam looked around the room, his face anxious until Gimli realised he was looking for something to put his flowers into. The Dwarf grabbed a glass container from a nearby shelf and filled it with water from the jug at Legolas' side. 'Here. Put them in here.'

Sam fussed over the flowers and placed them carefully. 'I want them to be the first thing he sees when he wakes up,' he said softly and Gimli remembered how Legolas had done the same every morning so that Sam's heart would be gladdened. The dwarf felt a tear prick his eye and rubbed his nose surreptitiously and berated himself for being a sentimental fool.

o0o0o

Elladan wiped his forehead on his sleeve and blinked. He was tired. Too much had happened over the last few days: he had performed two significant operations upon two he cared for, Aragorn and Legolas. But both were healing well, he thought.

He glanced over towards the bed where Legolas now lay sleeping peacefully, no longer twitching and spasming, and there was a soft flush of sleep on his cheek. Elrohir still sat slumped in the chair. Gimli had gone, returning with Sam to see the rest of the Fellowship and share the news, Elladan supposed.

He watched his brother for a moment; Elrohir's long legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankle. His head had dropped forward so his chin was almost on his chest. Candlelight gleamed on his long black hair and threw his cheekbones into sharp relief. It made him look thinner, drawn almost. For a moment, Elladan was acutely aware that his skin merely covered the skull, it draped over the jawbone, the cheeks, nose, stretched over the eye sockets. It made Elrohir skeletal for a horrid moment and brought a cold shiver to Elladan's own skin.

He stepped back suddenly and blinked. No. It had been the light, an illusion only. There was his beloved brother, who had again risked his own life, without thought or care, for Legolas. His hand was clasped protectively over Legolas' and in their sleep they clung to each other.

A strange longing crept over Elladan then. There was no one about whom he felt that deep devotion, whom he would so thoughtlessly sacrifice himself, he thought.

No, that was not true, he recognised. He had done this for Elrohir. _But he is my brother, my twin._ They had done as much for each other time and time again. He had risked himself for Erestor in Phellanthir, he mused. Indeed, risked far more than only his life. _But that is Erestor,_ he told himself as if that answered everything. That was merely standing between a friend and danger, he thought. He had done that many times.

What was different, newly discovered for Elrohir, was the absolute certainty, the belief that Legolas must continue, even though Elrohir might cease.

 _As you did for Erestor in Phellanthir,_ something suggested itself to him. _Indeed you risked far more than your life. You took a Morgul blade that could have cut your soul from your body…Why might that have been?_

Elladan blinked. It was like another voice in his head. But there was no one. Just Legolas, who was deeply sleeping at last. And Elrohir.

Elrohir stirred slightly and one eye opened sleepily, strayed to Legolas and then drifted into peace again. Their love was tender and deep, thought Elladan and he had never thought Elrohir would find the other half of his soul. At least, not before Elladan himself.

He felt a sudden loneliness and looked away. He thought about Imrahil, took out the memory of that night they had first lain together:

 _…Imrahil had tossed back the last of his wine while he looked admiringly, appreciatively at Elladan. 'You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen.'_

 _Elladan had not quite known what to say; he was not used to thinking of himself like that. Healer, warrior, lore-master. But not beautiful. He had lifted his hand and stroked back Imrahil's hair wondering what he should say in return but he did not need to for Imrahil had borne down upon him then and pressed his mouth against Elladan's, pushed his tongue in so he thought he would faint and let his hands catch at Elladan's balls, his cock, squeeze and twist and pump until he had arched and lifted himself from the bed in anguished desire._

 _'You are tense, my beautiful warrior.' Imrahil had stilled his hand and leaned over Elladan's back, breathed over his neck so a shiver went down his spine. His hands had gentled and he had pushed Elladan's legs apart with his knee and stroked his balls from behind._

A lovely thrill of desire shot through Elladan now as he stood remembering and he glanced quickly about himself in case anyone observed how he had stiffened at the memory. _And then the spike of desire that had followed Imrahil's words, whispered huskily into Elladan's neck: 'I will be gentle, I promise…but next time I will devour you.'_

They had not been frequent lovers, but enough to be easy in each other's company, to laugh together and share a cup of wine in the glow of satiation.

Elladan dwelled upon Imrahil for a moment, and thought he missed the Prince's company, and the hardness of his body too. But it was not the same as Elrohir had with Legolas. He knew that.

But perhaps it is merely time, he thought. Perhaps if I had more time with Imrahil, I will find the other part of me.

He opened the door and left the room, the heaviness in his heart not lifted, for if Imrahil were indeed his other half, he would have to take the Gift of Men and be forever sundered from those he loved….

With a sigh, Elladan closed the door softly. Ahead of him the clear, wide corridors of the Houses of Healing opened. On one side the large windows looked over a courtyard, a tree in the centre was spreading its leaves over the fountain that played. It was cool in here, and quiet. A woman, clad in the brown robes of a healer, walked silently past, nodding at him as she passed.

At that moment, a door opened and to Elladan's surprise, Tindómion came out, laughing to himself.

'Istel!' Elladan exclaimed. Tindómion looked up and smiled.

'Erestor is incorrigible,' he said and clasped Elladan's shoulder. But Elladan felt a surge of fear.

'Erestor. He is injured?'

'Barely,' Tindómion said with a quick smile. He jerked his head towards the door. 'They cannot keep him in there much longer. I will wager he follows me out of there in …' He paused and counted, 'Four, Three, Two, One…'

At that the door burst open and Erestor strode forth, he was looking back over his shoulder to where a bundle of anxious healers fluttered. 'I thank you. Imladris thanks you.' He bowed with a flourish of lace sleeves and velvet. 'The King thanks you. Gondor thanks you!'

Elladan could imagine the wolfish grin on Erestor's face as he bowed and indeed, as Erestor turned, his teeth were bared in a terrifying smile and his eyes glinted amber.

'Very fearsome,' Elladan said drily. And all the emptiness of his heart was filled and the yearning and loneliness gone. He clapped his two friends on their shoulders. 'I am surprised they wanted to keep you. I should have driven you out of the door with a broom.'

"Haven't you forgotten something?' Tindómion asked with a sly smile. Erestor paused for a moment and then dived back into the room. Elladan looked questioningly at Tindómion. 'You'll see,' the Feänorian promised wryly.

Erestor returned, swinging an old hessian sack that was stained and had something heavy and round at the bottom of it. 'Come then children. Let us find our friend, Laurëlindë.' He led them along the wide, cool passage that ran along the garden of Healing.

Elladan grimaced. 'That's the head, isn't it?' He looked at it, mixture of disapproval, revulsion.

'It is a gift,' Erestor said annoyingly and Tindómion snorted. They had arrived at the top of a wide sweeping staircase that wound to the ground floor. Two healers stood aside to allow them to pass and Elladan nodded greeting to them, for one had assisted him with Aragorn.

'That was once a Man,' Elladan said softly, indicating the sack, and Erestor nodded.

'You are just trying to annoy him,' Tindómion said acerbically with a touch of disapproval.

'On the contrary. There is a reason for this.' Erestor swung the sack as he walked. Elladan moved a little away so he would not brush against it by accident and instantly Erestor stopped swinging it. 'It has to be buried away from the body. Indeed, it should probably be burned and the body. We cannot take a risk with such evil sorcery as this.'

'But still you will use it to annoy and vex him.' Tindómion glanced at Erestor.

Erestor shrugged. 'It is the basis of our affection. He is prim, I am annoying. His primness annoys me. My carelessness annoys him.'

Elladan smiled. 'Glorfindel prim?' He laughed. 'I have never thought of him as being prim.'

'Oh yes,' Erestor grinned mischievously. 'And very easily shocked. And stuck up. You should have seen him when he descended from Gondolin to muck in with my lords of Himring and the Gap. He could hardly bear the mud on his boots.'

Elladan laughed out loud then, knowing that Erestor was merely teasing. He felt all the sadness and emptiness flow out of him and instead there was light and joy in his heart. As the doors to the Houses of Healing were opened for them, he lifted his face up to the starlit sky and the cool night air. He did not see the expression on Erestor's face, the pain and longing that had not gone from his heart even if it had gone from Elladan's.

0o0oo

*The Grey Company: Halbarad and the Sons of Elrond arrive in Rohan, searching for Aragorn to bring him messages from Galadriel and to join him in his quest. This is in the story, Deeper than Breathing or Songs of Rohan on Ao3.


	42. Chapter 42 Arwen

**Chapter 42: Arwen Undómiel.**

Aragorn slowly blinked awake. There was a blazing, painful light and he turned away for it hurt his eyes. But as he did, a gentle hand touched his face and the pain melted away like mist in the early morning sunlight.

A scent of lavender and roses reminded him painfully, of Arwen. No matter that she was on her way to him, he could hardly bear it without her.

Blinking he opened his eyes again and this time he could see.

A halo of sunlight was around her head, stroking her dark hair. Her beautiful grey eyes regarded him amused and her full lips curled upwards.

'Arwen?' he breathed. 'This is a dream.' Oh but he wished it was not. Hoped it was more.

'No, my Estel.' Her fingers caressed his face lightly. 'It is real this time.' It could not be! A bolt of adoration shot through him, almost painful. Surely she could not be here, truly? Then Elrond and his retinue must also be in the city. He knew that his brothers were here for Elladan had healed him, and he heard Glorfindel and Erestor bickering over him.

She stroked his neck, and the flat of her hand pressed against his chest, and his heart pounded with earnest devotion. Her lips were soft and full and when she pressed them against his, he opened under her and kissed her with all his love, all his passion for her. Arwen's quiet moan into his mouth where he kissed her, sent a shock of desire straight to his groin.

Alarmed, he pulled away, laughing and smiling. Cradling her hand in his, he stroked her fingers, adoration softening his gaze.

'I have come a long way to see you,' she murmured, leaning low over him so that her breasts brushed his chest, and again, her lips pressed against his. 'Would you still deny me?'

Aragorn struggled upright but his belly and his arm were very painful and he winced as he moved. 'Arwen, how is it that you are here? Like a dream you appear, like Yavanna herself.'

Arwen smiled. 'More like a woman who has waited for a very long time and grown tired of the waiting!' she said a little briskly. 'In every way.' Her eyes widened seductively and then her hand slid down his chest, skirted gently around the wound in his belly, and then stroked his thigh. He gasped and she kissed him again, deeply, murmuring softly against his mouth, 'No one will ever know.' She pressed herself carefully against him, gentle so she did not touch his wound, and her breasts pushed against him. Unbearably.

Aragorn licked his lips and lifted his hand to her beautiful face, let it caress her neck and she leaned into him so that his hand slid down to lie against her full breasts that strained against the fine woolen cloth of her tunic. Somewhere, he noted the tunic rather than a silk dress, but he had other things to think about right now.

'You have the silliest look on your face,' she said, smiling.

'I love you,' he said, knowing that he did indeed have a silly look on his face. 'I love you will all my heart and all my soul and with everything I have or will ever have,' he declared; his heart felt like it would burst and her nipple was hard and erect under his hand. He thought he would faint with desire.

'Why don't I just snuggle in and warm you up?' she said in a low voice and he thought about how soft she would be, and warm. In all the right places.

But then he steeled himself. As he had countless times past.

'Arwen, you know I want you more than anything,' he began and she froze. 'I want our wedding night to be special,' he added, worried.

Arwen gave him a look that reminded him far more of Galadriel than he could ever want and closed her mouth, her lips thin and irritated. But surely not with him? She was an angel, a goddess. She never became irritated or angry, he thought. Not with him. And hoped that he was right for he could not bear her disapproval or disappointment or the slightest hurt to her feelings.

Suddenly there was a tentative knock on the door and he snatched his hand back. Arwen leapt to her feet, smoothing her hair and pulling down her tunic.

Yes. It was a tunic, he realised, puzzled. A well-made tunic of soft brown wool, hardly Arwen's colour or her usual dress, he thought. But perhaps it was serviceable in the Houses of Healing. She wore darker brown hose as well and long riding boots. He frowned. This was definitely not how he was accustomed to seeing the Lady Arwen Undómiel. But he had no time to think about it for a voice called softly from beyond the door.

'My lords.'

Arwen pushed Aragorn back down into the pillows with one hand. He always forgot how strong she was! 'It is Aradhel,' she said approvingly. 'He is the only sensible man in this place..'

Aradhel. Aragorn felt his skin heat and shame heated his face and neck. He had treated the fat little clerk so shamefully when last they met.

Arwen was watching him with sharp grey eyes that missed nothing. He felt himself flush even more deeply and sweat prickled the back of his neck and upper lip.

'What have you done that has you so ashamed?' she demanded softly. 'I know that guilty look.' She stroked his cheek. 'I do not believe you will have done anything knowingly. You are the most honourable man I have ever known.'

Aragorn glanced up at her miserably. Her faith in him never wavered, never questioned him. But since he had left Imladris, how many times had he erred?

'It was when Bearos had me under his spell,' he confessed. Arwen listened, her lovely face attentive and focused on him. 'I think Bearos knew that Aradhel was suspicious of him and so manipulated me into dismissing him. was unkind and more. Please. let him in. I have much to apologise for and I have neglected my kingdom.'

Arwen snorted. In a delicate and elegant way but it was still a snort. 'You are not strong enough to do anything for your kingdom just now but rest,' she said as she rose to her feet and went to the door. 'Go to sleep,' she flung over her shoulder as she opened the door. 'Aradhel,' she said warmly as the Man entered.

Aradhel's round face was flushed and his eyes gleamed with excitement. Under his arm were many scrolls and in one chubby hand he clutched a handful of pens. Hanging around his neck was a cleverly designed bottle for ink like the ones that Erestor, and therefore Arwen, used in Imladris.

Arwen stepped aside to allow the clerk in and indicated the round table in the bay window where there was a bowl of roses and irises.

'My lady!' Aradhel bowed low. He did not even glance towards Aragorn, but hurried to the table and set the scrolls and pens carefully upon the table, anxious to make as little noise as possible and Aragorn realised that Aradhel believed he still slept.

And then another voice, more tentative, anxious. 'Lady.'

Faramir.

Eru, all his sins called to account at once, Aragorn thought miserably. He closed his eyes, hoping to give himself a moment to collect himself for he had treated both these loyal Men with disgraceful contempt and abused the trust of both. And they knew that he had been alone in his bedchamber with his betrothed too!

'Have you found the charts we need, Aradhel?' Arwen asked with no mention of Aragorn's awakening. 'Here. Let us sit in the window for the sun is warm and the air full of Summer.'

He heard Arwen pulling out two chairs for them and the three sat at a table in the window, ignoring him completely. Aradhel pulled three scrolls towards him and spread them out on the table. He fished about in his pockets and found several little clips that held open the thick parchment. Faramir leaned over them with interest.

'Ah. So here is the design for the aqueduct,' Faramir was saying and Aragorn had never seen him so animated. 'Good work, Aradhel. Duinhir was right! We can see here how it brings water from the mountains rather than the Anduin or the springs beneath the city.' He jabbed a finger down towards the chart and then his finger followed something drawn upon it that Aragorn could not see. 'It is cleaner and faster than the water stored in the city.'

'And of course there is greater volume so it can feed all the smaller aqueducts,' Aradhel said and his voice was equally excited.

'Yes,' agreed Faramir. 'It is …. this one I think. Here. ' There was the sound of the charts being moved around and another being unrolled and Aragorn shifted so that he could see them. 'It shows the water courses of the city.' Faramir had his back to Aragorn and Aradhel was leaning towards Arwen, showing her some symbol on the map and her lovely face was absorbed, animated.

'Is this the map showing the aquifer on the Pelennor fields?' she asked. 'We can include that in our plans so we should easily be able to irrigate the fields more regularly and without depending on rainfall.'

'An excellent idea, my lady!' Faramir said in a pleased voice. He raised his head to look at Arwen and for a moment his gaze lingered upon her but Aragorn could not blame him for she was fair and beautiful and his heart felt it might burst.

'And there is sufficient resource in Pelargir to build the channels quickly, my lady,' said Aradhel. 'I have requisition orders for stone and timber enough…'

But Arwen interrupted gently. 'Call me Arwen, please. When we are working. Later, at court, you can say Queen of the United lands blah blah, for all I care.' She dazzled both with her smile. 'But we are fellow conspirators in here.' They looked at her with absolute adoration.

'Then, Arwen,' Aradhel bowed, smiling widely, 'we could get this finished by Yule.'

'And that would guarantee water for the city for the summer when the springs are often dry,' Faramir said. His quiet voice was firm and authoritative and Aragorn thought about the last time he had seen Faramir and squeezed his eyes closed. How close he had come to ordering this good Man's death, and bringing his city into civil war. He was not worthy to be King!

As if Arwen sensed his disturbed thoughts, she turned towards him. 'Gentlemen, the King is awake. Perhaps we may seek his approval for our plans?'

Aradhel spun towards Aragorn, clapping his fat hands in delight. 'Oh my lord!' he cried emotionally. 'I thought we might still lose you!' There were tears in his eyes and he hurried to Aragorn's side, falling to his knees at the bedside much to Aragorn's embarrassment and consternation.

'Aradhel, my good friend.' And he found that it was true. Aradhel had stood up to him when he was deep in the clutches of Bearos. And now he knew it had been the Ring of Khamûl too that the little clerk had braved. 'My dear friend, who stood with me when all was dark.'

Aradhel knelt at Aragorn's bedside, his chubby cheeks were sunken though and dark circles were around his eyes. Aragorn reached out to him in concern. 'Have you been unwell, my friend? You look tired.'

Aradhel blushed slightly and looked down. 'I have been so worried, my lord.' He spread his hands appeasingly. 'But it is no matter now that you are returned to us and in better health.'

'Aradhel has been keeping your kingdom going while you snored loudly enough to wake Smaug himself.' Arwen made her way to stand behind Aradhel and put her hands on his shoulders. 'This Man deserves to be made a lord for his work while you were sleeping like a babe in its mother's arms. He has not rested but worked all night, every night to keep the people fed and your roads clear. And he has been helped by your excellent Steward.' She glanced over her shoulder to where Faramir stood nervously, hesitant and tense, like a colt that is not sure which way its master might greet it.

Ashamed, Aragorn covered his face with his hands and mumbled his apology. 'How can I ever do enough…' he began. 'I have wronged you.'

But Faramir hurried over and stood just behind Aradhel. 'My lord, please. There is nothing to forgive.' He moved closer so he stood alongside Aradhel and lifted one hand as if he were reaching out to Aragorn. 'You were bespelled and beguiled by the Ring, by Bearos. How could you…'

'No! Let me feel it.' Aragorn cried and he pressed his lips together in anger at himself and his own gullibility. 'I am unworthy of your trust. I succumbed to Bearos' sorcery so easily. I allowed my dearest friend to be held captive for weeks with barely a search for him. Aradhel, I treated you shamefully, I allowed Beregond to be dismissed and Faramir…' Aragorn could hardly bear to look the young Man in the eye; he had come so close to ordering his execution. 'Faramir…I can never…How will I ever earn your trust again?" He tried to reach out to them both but his ribs and chest were still so sore that he winced and almost cried out.

In an instant Arwen was there. 'Stop trying to move,' she told him concerned. She pushed him back onto the pillow gently. 'You won't heal if you keep stretching the new skin.' She smiled at him with such tenderness, oblivious to all else but him. So much so that neither of them saw Aradhel's fond smile.

'Dear lord,' Aradhel said gently. 'There is nothing to forgive. We know you were pressed hard to resist. I saw how you tried and how Bearos overcame you. But you are back with us now.'

After Arwen had settled Aragorn gratefully back into the pillows and stroked his hair, she turned back to her helpmates. 'Gentlemen, shall we continue? We will run out of time if we do not attend to our work. Now, Faramir. Tell me about these springs that feed the main stream that comes for the mountain. Where did you say its course went?'

'Down through the Hallows, lady…Arwen. It flows across the hillside and then down into the city via the fourth level.'

Aragorn watched Arwen with admiration and relief. She was brilliant at this. He thought of all the petitions and orders, bills and supplies he had piled on his desk. Aradhel was an excellent clerk and had kept Aragorn making decisions that he needed to but Aragorn had little experience of actually running a city, not of this size. It was different in the Angle where a shared purpose, blood and threat kept everyone together. But Arwen had run Imladris with Erestor, his best pupil as he often said proudly. And Faramir had trained with Denethor in the administration of the city; Aragorn knew because Boromir had told him that he was intended to be the general, and the Steward in name but the truth was that Faramir understood how things were ordered and how to keep the city functioning.

Suddenly things had slotted into place and Aragorn found himself at peace for the first time in months. He settled back more comfortably and watched them work, admitting to himself that it was indeed a pleasure to see how they worked together and how his wonderful future wife managed her counsellors.

His wife. He smiled blissfully. Her counsellors. He smiled even more widely, acknowledging the truth. She would be Queen indeed.

A crisp knock on the door sounded and everyone's heads turned. Aradhel and Faramir looked quickly at Arwen and she stood and pulled the hood that was part of her tunic up over her head but just enough that it did not look odd; a glamour fell around her too so that the eye skimmed over her.

'Come,' Faramir commanded and a flustered, overexcited page almost fell through the door clutching a sheet of paper.

'My lords! Its Elves!' the page hissed loudly with an anxious glance at Aragorn, whom he expected to be asleep. When he saw the King was wide awake, a wide smile stretched his mouth and he sketched a hurried and delighted bow and turned his attention towards the King. 'They are coming! Here, to the city! So many of them! Their horses are the most noble steeds and their hair is long and floating on the wind and their eyes are like spears and their voices, for they sing as they approach!' The boy was so excited it seemed he had completely forgotten to be awed.

But Aragorn was confused. He had assumed that Elrond and his retinue was here already since Arwen was here? He threw a look at his betrothed and saw her face suddenly guilty and anxious.

'What…?' he began, confused.

'I came ahead,' she said briefly and Aragorn blinked. 'I was worried,' she explained. When he shook his head at her, still puzzled, she tutted and said a little irritably,' About you. And a good thing I came too.'

Faramir glanced at Aradhel, who sent him a warning glance and turned immediately to the boy, distracting him. 'Send up the cooks,' he said. 'We have a feast to prepare and the King will want them to give a good account of themselves.'

'My good Arwendral,' Faramir, realizing that Aradhel was distracting the boy and buying Arwen time, turned gallantly towards Arwen and gave her a meaningful look. 'As you are the page of the Lord Glorfindel, perhaps you will carry the King's good wishes, welcome to your people and invite them to make haste and join us?'

Aragorn opened his mouth to ask why Faramir was addressing Arwen as such but Aradhel suddenly stood in front of him so he could no longer see the page or Arwen. He heard Arwen's voice saying quickly, 'Of course my lord,' and then he saw her stepping quickly past the over-excited boy and with a quick glance towards Aragorn that was apologetic and full of regret, she left.

For Aragorn it was like the sun had gone in and the world left darker and gloomier. The he felt a small chubby hand pat his and Aradhel's cheerful, kindly face looked at him, brown eyes twinkling. "Your bride approaches, my lord. We have a wedding to prepare!'

0o0o

Legolas was aware of golden light all around him. Warmth from the summer sun. A scent of jasmine and green leaves. Sap rising in the great plane trees of the White City. In the garden at the heart of the Houses of Healing, a blackbird sang. Nearby, close enough that he could reach out, was steady breathing. Someone was sleeping nearby, or resting very quietly.

Even without looking, he knew it was Elrohir. His Song was wrapped about Legolas like a blanket: the cry of a lone eagle, high above snow-covered mountains, pristine, untouched. Legolas knew the refrain like he knew his own hands. Without turning his head, he could see beside him long black leather boots clasping long legs, clad in black leather breeches. And he could smell the musky, masculine scent that was Elrohir. Now it was home.

Legolas felt tears prick his eyes and blinked slowly awake. He winced at the bright sunshine at first, for he had been so long in the pitch dark with nothing but the eerie glimmer from the Glass. But slowly his eyes adjusted and he turned his head to see that Elrohir sat slumped in a chair that was a little too low for him, his long legs stretched out, elbow resting on the chair arm and his cheek pressed into his hand in sleep. He looked younger, the cares and anxieties smoothed away. His other hand was hanging loosely over the other arm of the chair.

Legolas could not help it; he wept silently. He was safe. Bearos was dead. Elrohir was here. Nothing else mattered. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned into the pillow, that smelled of lavender, and clean linen. He was healing; his wounds still stung and the new skin was sore and tender, but beneath the skin, his sinews and tendons were returning to their natural elasticity. Bearos had never hung him for so long that he could not bear it, until the last time when he thought he would die. He shrank away from the thought of the Ghoul, its touching and probing with its clawed hands. The bite. He could hardly believe that he was here. Every loud noise or clatter made him jump.

Burying himself into his pillow he turned his thoughts instead to what he had overheard these last few days, or been told in his half-dazed state by the Hobbits, or Gimli. A smile just touched his lips, for he could not smile properly, not yet; his lips were still bruised and split. Dear Gimli. Who would ever have thought how close he would be to the Dwarf? And whatever would his father say?

At the thought of Thranduil, he sighed, wondering how everyone was, and whether there was more news since the letter he had received on the Cormallen Fields. It seemed an age ago.

Elrohir stirred. 'Legolas?' he whispered so softly that he would not awaken Legolas if he still slept.

But Legolas wanted company, speech, comfort, warmth, closeness. Elrohir. He wanted to know that the Ghoul really was dead, that he really was safe. He shifted slightly and then winced. 'I am awake,' he said quietly and was startled at hearing how rough his voice sounded. 'I am so glad that you are here.' He tried to reach out to Elrohir but found the blankets so tightly tucked in around him that he could hardly move and his limbs were heavy and soft. He felt a frisson of panic fizz along his nerves but Elrohir moved.

'Do not move yet. You are swaddled in bandages like some sort of caterpillar!' Elrohir laughed softly and moved into Legolas' line of sight. His dear face was drawn and tired with concern and there were lines about his eyes that told how he had not slept, not properly. His eyes were fastened upon Legolas' face like he could not bear to look away, as if he thought Legolas might melt away beneath his gaze.

He loosened the blankets around Legolas so he could move a little and Legolas' fingers reached out slowly, painfully and clasped his, wanting, needing to feel warmth, contact. He wanted to be sure he was really here. Elrohir clasped him tightly,

'I.. I thought I had lost you.' Elrohir's voice shook and Legolas saw that tears were in his grey eyes.

'Never,' he said, and was shocked at how weak he felt. 'I told you…I will find you though I have to go to the end of the world.'

Elrohir's gaze pulled away at that, as if it hurt him somehow. Weakly, Legolas stroked his fingers. 'You found me. You rescued me.' His fingers brushed the ring on Elrohir's hand, and a spark pricked his fingers like a bite and he pulled back instinctively. It was the ring that Elrohir's mother had given him, Legolas thought. Perhaps Celebrían reached out from beyond the Sea to protect her child from the horror that Legolas represented, the danger to her child?

I am being ridiculous, he told himself, and pushed the thoughts aside.

'I came for you as you came for me before the Morannon,' Elrohir said fondly.

Legolas laughed. 'No. It was you who saved me. Three times you have done so,' he said lightly. 'Is it not my turn yet?' His voice rasped though and his throat was dry and sore.

'Here.' Elrohir reached for a polished pewter jug and poured liquid into a glass. The liquid was amber-gold. 'Honey, lemons from the South, and athelas from Aragorn. A slug of miruvor from Glorfindel.'

'Bless Glorfindel!' Legolas smiled. 'How is Aragorn?' He licked his swollen and bruised lips uncomfortably. 'Where is he? And Gimli? And the Hobbits? Are they well?' How long he had been missing? 'What has happened since…I was…' He could not finish that sentence. It hurt too much. 'Is there word from my father?' was his next question.

Elrohir held the glass to his lips. 'Drink first. And can you eat a little broth?'

'Broth?' Legolas' belly rumbled hungrily and Elrohir laughed indulgently.

'I will get you something. But for now, drink a little more. Then I will tell you anything you want to know.' He held the glass for Legolas who found his hands still could not quite hold the glass steady. 'Although I think there are others who are desperate to see you, talk to you and perhaps are more used to chatter than I.' But he smiled. 'Gimli is sleeping in the room next to us. We have taken it in turns and he has only just retired so I will leave him a little longer if you will. Sam has been waiting too. The Hobbits have been taking it turns to check on you and Aragorn.' He stopped, smiling.

'What?'

Elrohir sighed. 'I am worse than Pippin chattering on.'

Legolas smiled. 'When I was here last,' he said conversationally, 'after you rescued me from the Nazgûl, if you recall, Pippin was the first person I saw.'

Elrohir winced. 'Please do not remind me of that terrible time. I behaved abominably then. I cannot forgive myself for that. Ever.'

Legolas tutted and shook his head slightly. 'That is not what I meant and we have been through all that before. Let us not repeat conversations endlessly, my Elrohir. I have not the patience or the energy.' He smiled to take away any sting. 'When I was here last, Pippin told me that he had been the one to work out that Bilbo's old Ring was The Ring, and Gimli told me that he had killed the mamûk and beaten my score by a half-hundred.' He laughed softly.

'I have to get a message to Aragorn and the hobbits as soon as you are awake.' Elrohir moved as if to stand. 'Then I will bring you something to eat.'

'Wait. There is something else first,' Legolas said, catching Elrohir's sleeve before he moved away, and pulling him to the edge of the bed. Elrohir leaned over the edge of the bed towards Legolas, his eyes soft with love and devotion. Legolas pulled him closer so that he sat alongside Legolas and the Woodelf rested his head upon Elrohir's chest. He could hear the strong beat of Elrohir's heart, the pound of blood in his veins, the breath of him and he leaned into his beloved and turned his face, his mouth towards Elrohir and sought his lips. He felt the absolute relief, rest, comfort of the kiss that deepened and was tender, and clung to him.

His heart surged with love. I cannot live without this, he thought. I cannot live without him.

When Elrohir pulled back slightly Legolas gazed into his grey eyes and saw the silver light in them, the blue and green echoes that were there when you really looked, his long hair like night silk, his skin, fine and clear and his noble, lovely face. And smiled. 'I think after I have eaten, I may need some other physical comfort,' he said incorrigibly and Elrohir's delight was a balm to Legolas too.

0o0o

Legolas must have dozed off again for a slight clink of metal awoke him and he had forgotten where he was because he wanted to leap to his feet, thinking the Ghoul had returned. But he struggled against softness and the smells of clean laundry brought him back to the Present. A rich and enticing smell made his mouth water and his belly rumble.

'Here we go, Legolas,' said a cheery voice, full of warmth. Sam?

So Elrohir had not returned? He wondered where he was and felt his absence keenly. He felt wobbly and uncertain without Elrohir there. But, he told himself sternly, this was Sam. His companion on the quest. His friend.

He blinked awake and struggled to move.

'Oh! You're awake!' Sam let the tray drop onto a table with a quiet clatter and threw himself at Legolas' side. 'Legolas? Legolas?' he called softly.

Sam's anxious face appeared, blurred at first but as he blinked, the hobbit's hopeful face came into sharper focus. His bright eyes were wide and delighted. 'Oh, I am so glad you are awake. We have been so worried about you although Elladan said we weren't to be and that you just needed time to recover. But you were so cold, and so pale…And then when Elrohir said you were awake and hungry I came in but you were asleep so I went away but I came back just in case and…and here you are!'

Legolas tried to move but found his arms were pinned down and he could not move. For a moment, he panicked, thinking that Bearos had tricked him again, that he was dreaming this and instead he would find the Ghoul grinning down at him, its foul breath on his face, its stinking carcass pinning him, grinding into him, biting…He fought uselessly for a moment, whimpering, and then suddenly he was free.

Sam had seen how it was distressing him and simply pulled the sheets and blankets free, his kind face smiling and tearful.

'Hush now. That's Gimli tucking you in so tight,' he said with a little smile, kindly ignoring Legolas' whimper. 'He was afraid you might get scared and try to get out of bed or summat. I'll make sure Gimli knows you're awake, and Elrohir. He's been here all the time and only just gone for a moment to see his brother. He'll be so sorry that he missed you waking up and all.' He kindly ignored Legolas' ashamed face and chattered on as he plumped up the pillows and helped Legolas to prop himself up a bit more.

Their eyes both alit upon the little vase of wildflowers on the little table beside the bed and Sam gave him a shy smile. Legolas found tears in his eyes. But Sam shushed him gently and so kindly it made Legolas's heart squeeze.

'Do you think you might be able to drink some more of this honey and lemon?' Sam asked.

Legolas nodded carefully. His neck hurt but he couldn't remember why. He licked his lips and tried to speak. 'I re…remember.' He swallowed. His throat was dry and as if he knew, Sam held a cup to his lips and helped him to drink. Water soothed his throat and he felt so thirsty that he wanted to gulp it down but Sam restrained him and patted his arm and told him to sip it.

'I had them make those little bread rolls you like and there is some broth. It's very nourishing but not heavy. They gave it to Frodo and I a lot when …' Sam looked abashed. 'You know.' But Legolas was overcome by his kindness and found himself in tears again like some weak child. He shook his head at himself and rubbed his face, pulled himself together.

'I will try and eat something, Sam,' he said and felt he was being brave for the hobbit's sake. What has happened to me? He thought in despair. I wasn't like this when Elrohir was with me.

Weakly he managed to lift a spoon with broth in it, but even as it touched his lips, he felt his stomach churn and bile seared his throat. A lump of meat was in his mouth and he could not swallow it. He squeezed his eyes shut….

…Screams had torn him from an exhausted sleep and he leapt to his feet in terror. But the screams were not the Nazgûl. They came from beyond the cell…further away. And there was a frightened panting like a hunted animal, outside the cell door. Legolas leapt towards the door. 'Run!' he shouted. 'RUN!'

And whoever it was, had run.

A long drawn out howl echoed through the crypt, through the dark tunnels and moments later, he heard the Ghoul pounding through the tunnels in pursuit.

There was a loud snarling, scuffling. A cry ripped the air...

Later, the ghoul had forced shreds of raw, bloody meat into Legolas' mouth. In horror, he had spat it out until the Ghoul had forced his mouth shut, held his nose so he had no choice…but he knew what it was and he felt sick. At first he had regurgitated it immediately afterwards until the Ghoul found the way to make him keep it down by holding him down on the flat rock floor ….

'Careful now,' Sam said. 'You should sip it. I know you want to guzzle it down but it'll only make you sick.'

Legolas felt his stomach rebel and leaned forwards, urging. Sam patted his back concerned and kind, pushing his hair away and holding a basin under him. But there was nothing in his belly but bile and burning liquid strung from his mouth, his eyes wept. The lump of meat sat in a pool of liquid, saliva and bile in the bowl.

'Ah, I should have fed it to you by teaspoon,' said Sam annoyed with himself but Legolas looked up at the Hobbit desperately. He found compassion in his brown eyes, and understanding. He let his gaze slip down to the coverlet. He could trust Sam.

'Sam,' he said and had to stop for a moment, horrified at the sound of his own voice. More like a croak than the voice he knew. He licked his lips and tried to swallow. Better. 'Sam, please…I can't…'

'It's all right. You just need to sip it slowly. Just a little,' Sam coaxed but Legolas turned away, frightened.

'I can't! I can't eat…that. Please don't make me.'

Sam stared at him uncomprehending. 'All right,' he said at last. 'If you don't want it, you don't have to eat it, he said soothingly but he glanced at Legolas in concern. But Legolas closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. He could not bear it. No one must know what he had been forced to eat …. They would be horrified, treat him differently.

But Sam must have guessed, he realised. For Legolas had never shied away from meat before.

'Don't tell,' he said quietly, begged. But he meant, don't ask, don't tell. He was weak and stupid! How could he have been so easily caught, imprisoned? Everyone must think him a fool. If they knew this, they would think him an Orc.

Sam was quiet for a moment and then slowly, he took Legolas' hand away from his face and peered up at him. 'I won't,' he said, peering up into Legolas' face. 'But can you eat something else? Maybe a little bread?'

Legolas could not look at Sam. He did not think he could ever eat meat again, after what Bearos had forced him to do. And he did not think he could ever go underground again, or look in a mirror. He was so weak, and felt frail as he never had in the Wood. Maybe he just needed to go home.

'It's all right, Legolas,' said Sam. 'I won't tell anyone anything.' His brown eyes held Legolas like he was something too delicate and might break. 'I promise.'

0o0o0o


	43. Chapter 43 ELrond

Thanks to my wonderful beta, Anarithilen.

Thanks as well to Laure, Pame, chasingbluefish, LayneWolf, SparkyTAS, Nelyafinwe, Elfheim no kishi,Raider-K, earthdragon, Freddie, Alanic, Spiced Wine, Nash, Narya, Starfox, Naledi for reviews and comments and being so encouraging. Thank you all.

Chapter 43:Elrond

Elrond had agreed with Celeborn to make camp a march away from the city, under the trees and stars, with the Ered Nimrais raising their snowy heads above them and the Anduin away to the East sliding sinuously towards the sea. They were to await the return of Arwen and Glorfindel, and they anticipated messages from Aragorn about the time and manner of their entrance to the city. But for now, Elrond walked between the small groups of elves who were settling for the night, greeting those he knew and nodding courteously to those he did not. It was strange to meet Elves from Lothlorien after such a long time. He had not visited the Golden Wood since…

...since he had lost Celebrían. He could not bear to see the places they had fallen in love without her by his side. He could not bear turning when the wind stirred the shadows, thinking for a moment that it might be her. How would he tell her, when he did see her again, that Arwen, their beautiful daughter, was not coming? That she would not come over the Sea? That Celebrían would never, never see her again, nor hold her grandchildren's chubby little hands?

A deep melancholy had settled upon him. He felt Vilya reach out to him, threading her Song through his, seeking to heal what she could not.

A harpist thrummed lightly and a skein of music settled upon the evening air. A voice joined the music and sang softly. Horses cropped the short grass rhythmically. Overhead, one by one, the stars pricked the deep blue of the deepening sky. Away in the west, Eärendil arose, brightest of stars, and he tracked its passage as he waited. Even the pleasure of sleeping under the stars merely brought mournful memories of long ago, the strange and wonderful refugee life when he and Elros had been children and lived with Maedhros and Maglor.

He admitted that had his heart not been so weighed with grief that he could barely lift his head, he would have loved this. But he could not. He rode towards grief, loss. Death.

Arwen's choice devastated him though he would not begrudge her heart. If only he knew what Choice his sons might make, perhaps there would be solace in that, he thought. But he had been plagued with dreams of them too.

Only a few nights ago he had been standing on the banks of the Anduin with Galadriel. She had not spoken but leant her silent comfort through linking Nenya and Vilya; it was strange how the Rings leaned towards each other, winding their light together, ribbons of power, streamers of light. But Elrond was wary; Galadriel wanted Curvë - power, knowledge. She wanted to learn how to control all Three, to unlock knowledge, to build new technologies, to discover. She did not say it but he felt it nonetheless. The Rings had been lazily whirling their power and light about each other, like swans winding their necks about each other. The river's long sinuous slide of heavy water had lulled Elrond, the sun warm on his skin.

But as the sun sank over the mountains, Vilya had suddenly seemed to still, like a horse startled at a sudden sound. And then she flared and ignited, a spiral of blue-white Power thrusting upwards and away into the sky. The green fire of Nenya shot through Vilya's white lightning, spinning upwards and then shooting towards Minas Tirith where they could feel Mithrandir wielding Narya's fire like a blade. Vilya's white Power caught Elrond up like lightning. He had been aware of Galadriel standing with him, her head thrown back in exhilaration…

Neither knew what had happened, only that Mithrandir had needed them to weave about a powerful spell of binding. Afterwards, Galadriel had turned to Elrond with the glitter of excitement. 'Have you ever felt such Power?' she murmured. 'Think what we can do together.'

But Elrond had been shaken. Mithrandir had only called upon the powers of Vilya and Nenya in times of great peril and when facing their most dangerous enemies. This spell had been to bind something powerful and perilous. He knew that somehow his children were threatened. His sons. He half-saw, half-dreamed Elrohir: in the dream, he stood with his back to Elrond and was looking down at something, his face half turned towards Elrond and a fiery glow cast over him. At his side, the dark blade, Aícanaro, hissed and skulked in its sheath furiously, like it had been thwarted.

Elrond wished they would come, all of them, his sweet daughter who was lost to him now, his patient, calm Elladan, his angry passionate Elrohir. He wanted to gather them up in his arms and hold them to him, like he could when they were small and obedient.

He realised he had been so deep in thought that he had stopped and stood staring into the flames of a small camp fire while a minstrel strummed lightly over the harp strings. A cup was pushed into his hand, and he sipped the thin white wine that tasted slightly acidic, of new grass and citrus. It revived him a little and he looked around him with a little more interest. The man next to him smiled and nodded, for it was he who had given Elrond the cup of wine. The man was from Lothlorien and his hair glinted gold in the firelight. His face was a little fleshy, sensuous and his eyes knowing.

'My lord Elrond,' he said, smiling.

'Thank you.' Elrond nodded and lifted the cup a little in libation. He thought he knew the man and was about to ask him for his name when there was a commotion near the outskirts of the camp.

'My lord!' Saeldir cried, striding towards Elrond and Elrond lifted his head, turning curiously towards the captain of his guard. His handsome face was flushed and excited. 'Horses! A white horse and a rangy black steed that is bucking and tossing its head as it runs. It is riderless,' he added, a touch gleefully.

Elrond lifted a wry eyebrow. 'Niphredil. So they return. Is Erestor somewhere with them?' He rose to his feet and brushed off his tunic, his breeches. 'How many?'

Saeldir glanced at him. 'There are three. A white palfrey follows. The Lady Arwen, my lord.'

Elrond breathed. He had been furious when he found she had gone with her brothers. It was no way for the future queen of Gondor to arrive like some ragtail at her brothers' heels. But he knew her well enough, if he were honest. She was no fool and her heart was longing for Estel. 'Thank you, Saeldir,' he said calmly though his heart was heavy. For here it was at last; he was certain she would return changed. In her eyes there would be a different light, as it had been with Elros when he had chosen. He would lose his sweetest child.

He looked South towards Minas Tirith. They were only one or two marches away at best.

Then he saw Asfaloth hoving into view along the road, closely followed by a riderless black horse, reins trailing and its eyes wicked and bright with mischief. Behind it strode a figure as tall and rangy as his horse. Erestor. But Elrond's attention was all on the pretty grey mare that pounded after them, tired and panting but gamely charging along to keep up.

And suddenly Arwen was there, throwing herself from her mare and into her father's arms. He could not be angry with her. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed with excitement. She had cast off her cloak and the tunic and breeches she wore did nothing to dim her beauty. He opened his arms and hugged her.

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head as he had for years and years and years, since she was a baby, a chubby toddler stumbling after her long-legged brothers, and now. A bride to be. A queen.

He studied her anxiously and she grinned up at him, unrepentant though she said, 'Ada, forgive me. I could not wait and I was worried…'

For a moment he wished with all his heart that she had changed her mind, that she had decided Aragorn was not her beloved. But that was unforgivable too and she was not so fickle. All of Elrond's anger evaporated and he shushed her gently and stroked her hair.

'How is Estel?' he asked instead for he had already heard some of the news from Gondor, that Aragorn had been injured in an unsuccessful coup, that the plot behind it had been devised by one Man and foiled.

'He is recovering,' she said with relief in her voice. She linked arms with him and walked him back towards the camp, the reins of her mare looped over her free arm. 'Elrohir pulled him back from the Brink.' She breathed a little sigh and he thought how frightened she must have been and tightened his hand on her arm. 'He is all right though, Ada. You must not worry.'

'And your brothers?' he asked hesitantly. They would not have sent word. Not to him. Even now. Even though there had been some measure of peace between him and Elrohir when Elladan lay in the shadow of the morgul blade long months ago, just before the Fellowship had set out. The peace between them had lasted longer than Elrond had expected, and when Elrohir and Elladan had arrived to meet the wedding party in Lothlorien, Elrohir had confessed that he had been infected by the Black Web so that Elrond could heal him. Perhaps this peace between them could last, he thought, perhaps it was the beginning of healing? 'Are they both well?'

Arwen paused for a moment, enough for Elrond's heart to stutter and he thought of the images that had haunted his dreams.

'Ada? Ada?' Arwen's hand was on his arm and Elrond blinked, shaking himself. His eyes focused then upon Arwen. 'Ada…what is it?'

Elrond breathed and let his head drop forwards as the dream left him. 'I am well, Arwen. Do not fear.'

She watched him anxiously for a moment. 'Was it the Sight? What did you see?'

'Your brother. Elrohir,' he said slowly. 'He was standing half in darkness, half in fire. He was in danger.'

Arwen sighed. 'Ada, you do see clearly. Elrohir has been in danger but it is passed now. It is a long tale and perhaps best told by Glorfindel. And Erestor.' She glanced towards Glorfindel where he stood with Asfaloth, taking off saddle and bridle. Erestor was nowhere in sight. 'Both Elrohir and Elladan are well though. They suffered no harm or hurt. Do not fear for them. In fact, both are quite happy and Elladan is looking after Estel and Elrohir is.… helping the healers in his own way. They have moved into the Palace and have become fat and lazy!' She laughed softly. 'There is much to tell. But I will wait so the whole tale is told by those who know it the best.'

There was movement to one side of them, a glimmer of white samite and a gleam of emerald.

'Hardly the entrance of a queen to her new kingdom.' Galadriel stood behind them but a smile played about her lips and she looked approvingly at her granddaughter's attire.

'Granana!' Arwen cried and threw herself at Galadriel. She was the only one who would ever have dared.

'Our House has never been circumspect.' Galadriel smiled benignly and stroked Arwen's hair. 'And I do not suppose that Aragorn Elessar minded very much.' She looked piercingly at Arwen for a moment, and then smiled knowingly.

'You would have done exactly the same.' Arwen gave her a cheeky grin and then pulled back. 'I hope there is more to eat than lembas. I am starving.'

For a moment, Elrond forgot his premonition, and smiled at Arwen. 'There is food and drink set up beneath the trees.' And then it was back, the sense that it was not Arwen but Elrohir who stood on the brink of Doom.

Arwen had turned towards him solicitously, and suddenly Elrond caught his breath; there was something different about Arwen. He tilted his head slightly to look better. It was indefinable, a bloom in her cheeks but a dimming of the light in her eyes. He reached out to her suddenly but she did not see and had already begun to move away. Elrond felt Galadriel's' heavy gaze upon him and he glanced at her. Her eyes were full of compassion, and her own grief. She had seen it too.

Arwen had made her Choice. Irrevocably. Her feet were already upon the Paths of Men. She was already in possession of The Gift.

0o0o

It was Erestor who sensed Elrond's grief as they sat together to eat, and just touched Elrond's arm lightly and shared a look. Glorfindel sat on the other side of him and studiously ignored them. He poured wine for Elrond and then replenished Erestor's cup with a slightly lifted eyebrow for Erestor had not stinted himself in any way since they had arrived.

'And when you arrived in the city, you found there had been rebellion?' Celeborn prompted gently.

Glorfindel looked serious. 'How it came to pass is not easily told. But at the heart of it lies the Mirror of Minas Morgul,' he said somberly. 'It is the same as in Phellanthir we think.' He glanced at Erestor for confirmation, and for once Erestor sat quietly and added his words to Glorfindel's as they told their tale, and Elrond listened with dawning understanding of what had happened and why Mithrandir had needed Vilya and Nenya's power to bind the Nazgûl into the Mirror.

They listened in silence as Glorfindel told them how they had found the rebels' destruction in the levels, how Aragorn had been wounded, his Steward just released from imprisonment for treason and the citadel in uproar. As Glorfindel described the horror of Bearos' appearance, his wicked attack on the guard, and his promise to Elrohir to take him to Legolas, Elrond found himself slowly frozen with fear and horror. Perhaps that was what he had been seeing? Elrohir following this Bearos, this slave of the Nazgûl?

'When we found Legolas,' Glorfindel's voice was very quiet now and none but their small gathering could have heard. 'He was… he had been kept in a cell beneath the mountain, in the Tombs of the old Kings. He had been bound almost to the Mirror.'

Erestor glanced at his old friend briefly and Elrond thought there was much unsaid, but he did not press either of them. If Glorfindel thought it not fit to speak of, then there was a reason, but Elrond sensed there was a keen sense of the horror that Legolas had endured.

'The Mirror had become fluid,' Glorfindel continued softly. 'Like it did in Phellanthir, but far more so. In the Mirror were the Nazgûl.'

'But they are gone!' Elrond interrupted suddenly, leaning forward.

Celeborn too exclaimed, 'They were sucked into the Dark. I felt it!' He turned to Galadriel then as if looking for affirmation. But Galadriel did not move. Her face remained still, serene. Elrond thought there was an excitement in her eyes as there had been when she had spoken of the possibilities of the Mirror, of the Three. He remembered how he had felt blasted by her knowledge, her desire for Curvë, for power.

'Yes. And we know that each Mirror is a window onto the Dark,' Erestor said now. He poured more wine into each of their cups and Elrond swirled the rich dark wine in the goblet thoughtfully. 'We know this,' Erestor continued. 'They were pulled to the Mirror by Legolas. As Maedhros was pulled to Phellanthir by me.'

There was silence. Elrond tried to piece together what he had been told and then a horrible thought occurred to him. 'Rhawion? Was the same about to happen to Legolas?'

Erestor cast a quick look at Glorfindel and after a moment, the Elf-lord nodded. 'Yes. It was the Ghoul's plan it seemed. A good thing that Elrohir got to him in time to stop that, and then Erestor killed the Ghoul.'

Elrond looked then at Erestor, who looked serious and concerned.

'There is more,' said Erestor. 'Khamûl was there. Outside the mirror.' He looked around at the enthralled, wide-eyed faces gathered about him. 'He was pressed against the Glass as if he were keeping the rest of the Brethren trapped. It was most strange. But without doubt, Khamûl exists THIS side of the glass.'

Celeborn exclaimed and Glorfindel nodded seriously. 'It is true. Mithrandir has placed a spell that will keep him there until we know what to do.'

'Mithrandir cannot keep Khamûl there!' exclaimed Celeborn in shock. 'Nazgûl. They will not be contained by a mere spell!'

'You speak of Mithrandir, my love,' Galadriel's smooth voice interjected. 'He is not alone.' She cast an oblique glance towards Elrond but Celeborn caught it and uttered an expression of irritation and anger that surprised Elrond. He shot a look at his father-in-law but he did not speak.

'Khamûl is bound,' Galadriel said sonorously. 'The Mirror is safe.' Celeborn cast her an intense and furious look but did not remonstrate further, but it was so unlike his jovial and patient father-in-law that Elrond wondered what else might have been happening. Surely they were not at odds with each other?

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Erestor picked up the tale. 'It was Elrohir who went alone into the Tombs with the Ghoul,' he said, looking at Elrond. 'And it was he who brought Legolas from the darkness and back into the light. He risked much.'

Elrond was almost sick with anxiety. 'He risked his life to save Legolas?' he asked, frightened and proud at the same time of his reckless, angry son.

'But of course he did,' Erestor said. He opened his mouth to continue but Arwen interrupted.

'He has always been courageous,' she defended her brother. 'Never has he left anyone in danger. He is renowned for it. Why should he not rescue a companion of Estel?' At which there was a murmur of agreement and Arwen went on to tell how Elrohir and Elladan had used Tarnasercë, transferring blood from Elrohir to Legolas. Elrond was not surprised: Elrohir had always a huge capacity for self-sacrifice. As if he sought to assuage some terrible crime, expunge some burden of guilt that he carried.

Elrond knew what it was. He knew that Elrohir blamed himself for Celebrian's torture. But they all did. Galadriel stood beside him because she had not stopped her daughter from leaving, had not insisted on a bigger escort, had not quizzed her about the route they were taking, had not stopped the goblins and orcs. And Celeborn blamed himself for not going with her and Elrond… Elrond hated himself with a deep and relentless passion that wound itself about his heart and pierced him again and again, over and over until he thought he should follow Elros and Arwen into Death. For he dreaded seeing Celebrían as much as he yearned for her. What if she had not healed? What if she were still that terrified, emptied shell?

When they had finished their tale, Elrond could not sleep and walked under the trees, looking up at the stars through the branches and leaves.

Again, he felt Nenya. Like the sound of water, rushing rivers, cascades of white water in the Valley, the murmuring rush and sigh of the Sea.

Nenya shot through Vilya's blue and swirled through her light so that Elrond felt he was caught up in the Rilma-fortë, the swirling blue-green light that had shimmered in the skies of Beleriand when he and Elros had travelled with their fathers. It gave him a jolt of nostalgia that did nothing to soothe him but made him mourn even more greatly all that he had lost.

Galadriel did not speak, she merely came to stand beside him and they shared the same loss, the grief. Celebrían. Always it came back to this. Arwen. And for Elrond, it was Elros. He knew for Galadriel it was Finrod.

A smile against his thoughts for she shared the moment of guilt with him, knew where his thoughts had taken him.

Elrohir is changed, she said into his mind for she was skilled at ósanwe, and the Rings made it easy to speak. He has always been a healer, though he fights against harm and Elladan heals the way you do. He is more like you.

Elrond closed his thoughts: she thinks Elrohir more like her, her Finwëan blood, he thought. But Elros had been like that, so determined, so passionate! It was what had made Elrond fear that Elrohir would follow Elros.

He has chosen a different path, Galadriel said softly and Elrond knew then that the Sight was upon her. He has chosen.

Elrond turned to her astonished. 'How can you know that? Is it true?' he gasped. If it were true, he marveled, then both his sons would sail with him. He felt emotion choke him and tears blinded him. Relief if it were true.

Elrohir has chosen, she asserted quietly. But there was something below her voice that warned Elrond of something. He blinked and then opened his mouth in a small gasp.

'And Elladan?'

Galadriel said nothing then but her strong hand clasped his shoulder. 'Not yet.'

Vilya swept over him, immersing him in her healing peace and light but he did not want it. Not now. Not if he were losing Arwen and Elladan, his own child for Elrohir had always been Celebrían's favoured. It was to Elrond that Elladan had run when he fell and grazed his knees, or found an injured bird or mouse for he had always been a healer, wanting to know, to understand, to learn.

'I cannot bear it.' He bowed his head in defeat.

Perhaps you do not have to.

It was her opening he recognised later. She reminded him what Nenya had showed her, of the conversation in Lothlorien, and repeated silently ofttimes on this journey.

He had promised to join with her to open the Way, to unlock Time itself and turn back the Threads of Time and Space… but how far back would she go? Before Celebrían set out from Lothlorien? To before Maedhros cast himself into the fire and Maglor fled? He licked his lips anxiously. Would she push the threads back to before then? To stop Finrod from going to Tol-in-Gaurhoth?

He paused, realising he was holding his breath. He had promised to help her persuade Ólorin, Mithrandir to bring Narya to help. They could not do it without Narya…

She knew his doubt. She half turned towards him and spoke again directly into his mind. This is what the Three were made for. Tyelpo intended that they work with the Mirrors, to part the threads of Time and Space. To open the Way into the Past and bring them back…Bring them all back…

Her eyes blazed with intensity and purpose. Her will bent over him as she spoke again. 'We serve the Three as they have served us. You think the Valar will help us? You think Námo will ever have mercy upon your House?'

He knew she said his House deliberately, to remind him that Maedhros was cast into the Dark, to make him feel he had no choice.

'Would you condemn him to that, for eternity?' she whispered, and he could not refuse her then.

0o0o

Legolas pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The white linen shift that he was clothed in had ridden up to his thighs and his scarred legs looked thin and weak. Even so, he rose to his feet but had to hold onto the headboard as he wobbled a little. There was a deep and stinging wound near his groin where Bearos had sunk his teeth. But Legolas clenched his jaw and steadied himself. He took a breath. He wanted to be outside, breathe the air, feel the sun on his skin.

I need to be able to move, to get back to fitness, he thought. But what he meant was, and could not bring himself to think consciously, I need to be able to defend myself, to escape. To be strong. For he could not help the feeling that Bearos, the Ghoul, had not truly gone. A lingering unease crept through him constantly and it seemed that anything alarmed him; a drift of cold air had him startled and looking about himself in terror, a strange smell thrust him into wide-wakefulness, a sudden movement or sound beyond the window had him reaching for his knife.

Alas, his long white knives and the Lorien bow were lost. He had had them when the Ghoul imprisoned him although they were useless against the Ghoul. And then, one time he had recovered, awoken and they had been gone.

He breathed. A deep breath that shuddered through him.

The knives and bow were gone. As was his moss green tunic and soft suede boots. That was that. Accept it, he told himself sternly. Do not think on it. They are things, easily replaced.

But he felt naked and vulnerable without them. The white shift barely covered his knees and was too thin. It reminded him horridly of the silken Glass that had wrapped itself about him and the Brethren had pressed themselves close about him…

He shied away from the dreadful memories.

I will have to commission something instead, he told himself practically. It will give me something to do. I can ask Gimli to help me find someone who will forge new knives, fashion a new bow, weave or tailor new clothes. He wondered where Gimli was, for the Dwarf had spent a few hours with Legolas every day, but he had not appeared yet. It made Legolas nervous. Any variation to the routine made him anxious. He could not help wondering if the Ghoul had somehow taken one of his friends and this escape was an illusion, that the Ghoul merely toyed with him. He was sure he felt the lingering presence of the Ghoul and even though its head had been cut from its neck, he could not quite believe it was dead.

This is foolish nonsense, he told himself and leaned against the window frame. He looked out across the garden, listening to a blackbird's rill of fluid notes and took a breath of the clean air, wishing he could swing out of the window and up into the broad-branched and friendly pear tree in the middle of the garden where the blackbird must surely be perched. But he was not strong enough.

Yet, he reminded himself. Soon.

Sharp footsteps sounded outside and he lurched around unsteadily, his heart suddenly pounding in fear.

No, I am safe, he had to remind himself. I am in the Houses of Healing. I am free, he told himself and tried to calm his pounding heart. He recognised the clipped impatience, the restless energy that was Elrohir. So when Elrohir opened the door, Legolas had gained some control of himself and only a frisson of alertness and anxiety remained. But remain it did in spite of the delight that Elrohir showed when he saw that Legolas was up and out of bed.

'Do you want to go outside?' Elrohir asked solicitously. 'It may do you some good to be in the sunlight, and amongst the trees.'

'Tree,' corrected Legolas wryly. 'But yes. I wish for that very much.' He smiled and did not mind that Elrohir pulled a long robe from a hook behind the door and threw it around him though it was Summer and warm. It covered him and for that he was grateful.

'Is Gimli here?'

Elrohir glanced up at him. 'No. He is with the hobbits. He says there is something he has to do for the wedding.'

'Wedding?' asked Legolas stupidly. 'Oh. Of course.' He suddenly felt confused and uneasy. Of course Elrohir had returned for the wedding.

'That is not why I am here,' Elrohir said gently. He tried to tuck Legolas' hand under his arm so he could lean upon him but Legolas pulled away; it felt strange, too feminine, too dependent. His fingertips were prickly and he thought that perhaps the blood supply had not replenished quite fully yet.

'I came back for you,' Elrohir said. He glanced at Legolas. 'I knew there was something wrong.'

'Did you?' That came as a surprise to Legolas. 'What about Glorfindel and Tindómion? They came too.' Elrohir flinched slightly and his eyes skipped away from Legolas' and Legolas realised too late how stupid he was to have even mentioned Tindómion.

He resisted the urge to sigh: neither of them had ever spoken of the last night in Imladris. Elladan had lain in the half-death of the morgul blade and Elrohir had sought out his friend, Tindómion, for comfort. But Legolas had already been there in Tindómion's rooms with an entirely different purpose, half undressed and dizzy with lust. Faced with his old friend's misery, Tindómion had reluctantly sent Legolas away but gently enough that Legolas knew to go back later when Elrohir had left, to finish what he had started. It had been a pleasurable interlude.

But Elrohir shied away from any approach Legolas made about his previous lovers. And he did not have the strength right now.

Elrohir stood back and let Legolas walk out of the door before him, careful not to touch Legolas, not even to brush his arm as he passed.

A brown-robed healer was walking towards them, a basket on his arm filled with herbs and flowers. He smiled and nodded at them as they passed him. Legolas walked slowly and uncertainly, holding the wall to steady himself occasionally.

'I wish you would lean on me,' Elrohir said softly.

Legolas did not reply but kept doggedly on until they reached the courtyard where a fountain played and it was cool and shady. The cloisters opened onto the garden. By the time they reached the pear tree, Legolas was tired, he felt a sheen of sweat on his upper lip and he was breathing hard. He peered into shadows and when the breeze blew through the leaves, he started a little.

'When can I go to see Aragorn?' he asked suddenly.

'As soon as you are strong enough, of course,' answered Elrohir carefully.

'Am I not walking on my own?' Legolas said more defiantly than he intended and then immediately felt guilty: Elrohir had said nothing, done nothing to deserve this petulance, he told himself and sighed. 'I want to see for myself that he is recovered,' he said more softly. Only then did he push his hand through Elrohir's arm and leaned on him a little.

Elrohir turned his face slightly towards Legolas, his eyes grateful and overwhelmed that Legolas had allowed this slightest of contact. 'He says the same of you.' His smile was adoring and his fingers stroked Legolas' hand. 'Let me arrange for it.'

Legolas allowed himself to be led towards a stone bench.

'Shall we sit here?' Elrohir asked appeasing and hopeful. 'It is a quiet place. No one will come upon us unexpectedly.'

It was indeed a quiet corner where the stone was warmed by the sun and a pale stone bench nestled against the walls of the garden. Small red roses clambered untidily, their scent filled the air. Legolas lowered himself carefully onto the bench, trying not to stretch the new skin over his wounds. A sudden piercing pain shot through the wound near his groin and he took a sharp breath. Elrohir moaned helplessly for Legolas would have shaken him off, both knew.

Slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain, Legolas leaned back against the warm stone wall and breathed in the fragrance of roses. It reminded him of the house of the Fellowship; there was a tree covered in roses just like these. He had been hanging from his knees, upside down to annoy Gimli and Gimli had been trying so very hard to ignore him. He smiled at the memory and wished he was there now.

They sat for a while and Legolas was quiet, thinking how everyone must think him stupid to have been so easily lured by the Ghoul and trapped. Laersul and Thalos would be so disappointed, and Thranduil would watch him, wondering if he could be trusted now in the East Bite.

He bowed his head and looked down at his hands. A thread had come loose in the cuff of the shift. His fingertips prickled and he glanced uneasily around the garden but there was nothing. It is me, he told himself. I am just not recovered yet. Perhaps his pulse was still slow and sluggish? He shifted and drew himself upright. 'Can we walk about for a bit?'

Elrohir proffered his arm and this time, Legolas took it, feeling like the invalid he was. But though they ambled about the garden, his feeling of unease did not desist and his fingertips prickled the whole time. But he said nothing for Elrohir would insist on giving Legolas more blood and it made him feel sick at the thought. At the same time, he knew he needed to recover, and quickly: he could not shake off the sense that Khamûl was close; that Bearos was not dead; that the Ghoul might be hiding and would leap out and pounce upon him, drag him back to that cell, string him up and bleed him; that it had simply allowed this so he recovered enough that the Ghoul could take longer over his rape and murder, could pin him down and straddle him, grinding against him, enjoying Legolas' struggles…

'Legolas?' A voice hovered anxiously at the edge of his consciousness and there were hands on his shoulders but all he could see was the Dark, the wet silk of the Mirror pressed against him and the slurping and ululating of the Ghoul…

A deep crimson warmth crept slowly over him, soothing.

'Breathe, slowly, deep. In…now out, push it all out, that's right. In…'

Gradually Legolas became aware again of his surroundings. The blackbird sang, the sun was warm. A drift of cloud high in the bright blue sky…. Elrohir.

He was safe….

'Sorry…sorry….' he said, looking down at his hands.. They were trembling slightly and he clamped them to his sides so Elrohir would not see. He was ashamed, a warrior of the Wood, captain of the East Bite. How could he had been so stupid! How could he have let all this happen? His hid his face in his hands, feeling his skin hot with shame.

Elrohir lifted his hands and for a moment Legolas braced himself, thinking that Elrohir would pull his hands away. But instead he merely covered Legolas' hands with his and stood gently, saying nothing until the trembling had ceased and Legolas raised his eyes to Elrohir's. Elrohir's grey eyes were filled with such love, such concern … but there was something else there too, looking out at him, thought Legolas. Something shifted in the air behind him like something peered over Elrohir's shoulder. A long face, with a mouth filled with sharp teeth.

He pulled away in horror, mouth open, eyes wide.

'What is it? Legolas?'

No. It was Elrohir. Only Elrohir. He was imagining things. Like a child jumping at shadows.

'Let us get you back to bed,' Elrohir began to move him but Legolas resisted.

'No,' he said. 'I don't want to go back there. I want to go home…' And he really did. He wanted the Wood, the pale-green caverns filled with the sound of rushing water, the still pools, beech trees and the slow dark forest river…Thalos and Laersul, and his father. He wanted Galion's affectionate scolding and Anglach's cheeky grin.

But there was no Anglach. No Lossar or Miriel.

Suddenly he could not bear it and thrust Elrohir away. 'I want to go home,' he said, knowing he sounded petulant.

'Then I will take you there. We will stay for Aragorn's wedding and then we will go North.'

Legolas lifted a hand to his eyes. He was being childish in demanding to go Home. And weak. Instead he would go home to the hobbits and Gimli.

Suddenly a weight lifted from him. Yes. He would go there, to the House of the Fellowship here in the city. He would be safe there, with Gimli and the Hobbits. Gandalf was there too.

A sudden blast of sound thrilled the air. A fanfare of trumpets. Different sounds, different notes. There were other trumpets too, finer, made of mithril for the sound was clear, heraldic.

'That is an elven herald amongst them.' Elrohir turned his head and Legolas followed his gaze. They could see across the Pelennor Fields and the sunlight glinted on many shields, armour, spears. But long pennants flew in the wind. This was not war. This was the wedding party.

Long white flags with the running horse streamed alongside the blue flags of Dol Amroth with its swan. Behind them, long banners of blue and the star of Imladris. They mingled with the golden tree of Lothlorien.

'They are here,' said Elrohir softly. 'My father and Arwen and our House. Galadriel and Celeborn ride with them. And of course Imrahil has returned.' He paused and took a breath. 'Rohan too has come.'

0o0o


	44. Chapter 44 The House of the Fellowship

This chapter is a pleasant interlude, finishing a few things off before the Big Angst is back.

Thanks to the incomparable Anarithilien, beta.

Thanks as well to those fab readers who leave reviews, kudos or favs: Spiced Wine (special thanks for lending me Tindómion as well) keekercat, Golden, paradis_artifciels, AN, LayneWolf, chasingbluefish, Nash, Naledi, Narya, NelyafinweFeanorian, Raider-K, Nako, PhantomGirl, Freddie23, earthdragon, Pame. Thank you for the encouragement and feedback, sometimes hilarious! You make it worth posting

 **Chapter 44: The House of the Fellowship**

The city had filled with horses and guests for the wedding. Everywhere was full, every house, every inn, every stable. There was an excitement in the air and an anticipation that drove out the unsettled and uncertain edginess of the previous week when the city had been caught up in the attempted coup. But the King had been seen by his people, walking in the Citadel Square, albeit gingerly and only for short periods of time and heavily guarded. He had sent out pronouncements that were generally regarded as wise and would lead to prosperity, and those who had rebelled and not been killed, were either imprisoned or some of the lesser troublemakers had even been pardoned, although it was generally thought by the populace that a good hanging would have been both a more certain punishment and more entertaining.

Elves had been coming and going between the Citadel and the elvish camp that had been set up just outside the city on the Pelennor Fields and they were full of song and magic, so said the folk of the city. A shimmer had settled above the camp that the citizens of Minas Tirith said was magic and would bring them luck, and there was much too-ing and fro-ing between the city and the elves. Indeed, Lord Gimli Gloinsson had been seen amongst the elves as well as the inns of the city amongst the Rohirrim, who drank a lot, sang a great deal and laughed very loudly. The Lord Gimli was a great favourite amongst the Riders of Rohan, as were the Perianath, who were so revered and loved that they never had to pay for a thing and were considered to bring good luck and blessings on anyone they touched.

But the Lord Legolas had barely been seen at all, although the folk of the city knew a little of what had happened; many said that he had chased the evil Ghoul that had plagued the city, and in his pursuit been captured himself and held prisoner. Others thought it had been the Lord Elrohir, the King's half-brother or was he the future brother in law? or maybe uncle? - the people were mainly confused- who had rescued him and killed the Ghoul. Others argued that it had been Legolas himself who had killed the Ghoul and there was even those who thought another elf lord had done it. But all agreed that the danger was now over and the Golden Age had begun. They wanted to see the elves, especially Legolas who had fought alongside them, but it was thought that he must have joined his own people in the elvish camp.

He had not of course. He had returned to the House of the Fellowship in the quiet of early morning when few were about to see how fragile he was. How he startled at sudden sounds or movement. How carefully he had walked with the two sons of Elrond who accompanied him as far as the gate and, at his request, then turned away and left him to walk slowly, hesitantly, up the path and knock upon the door. It was opened by a sleepy hobbit who stared for a moment and then turned and shouted loudly into the house and then bundled Legolas inside. Legolas had not looked back though the brothers lingered until the door had closed.

And now Legolas sat in the kitchen of the house of the Fellowship while the hobbits bustled and fussed around him happily. He was disappointed that Gimli was not there but Sam had been very gentle, and Pippin tenderly brought Glaurung, the little cat, and placed her on Legolas' lap where she had purred delightedly, turned, digging her claws into his lap in ecstasy and then almost fallen into his lap where her whole body vibrated with her purring. Legolas felt tears burn his eyes in relief for even though the little claws were sharp, they did not remind him in the least of the Ghoul.

'Look! Lobelia is smiling!' cried Pippin and he danced a little jig of happiness. 'Legolas is home!'

'Lobelia?' Legolas asked, tilting his head to one side.

'I think it is a splendid name but Frodo thinks it is unfair to call our little friend after so horrid a person,' Merry told him, carefully balancing a tray laden with teacups and a jug of milk, a spare saucer for the little cat, a plate laden high with warmed honey cakes that Legolas particularly liked, a pot of tea, toast, butter, a jar of honey in case he wanted more on the cakes, and a bowl of thick cream.

Pippin followed him with a bowl of fruit and a pot of marmalade. 'Lobelia likes a dollop of cream,' he said cheerily.

'Gimli calls her Azhagâl,' Frodo said and put a plate in front of each hobbit and Legolas, then a knife and spoon. 'After the warrior of Belegost who was rescued by Maedhros. He gave Maedhros the Dragon Helm and struck a blow against Glaurung.' Frodo grinned at Legolas. 'I think he has chosen the name on purpose to vex you! But I call her Her Ladyship for she rules the house, Legolas. We tiptoe around her when she sleeps and give her the best of everything. Sam even gives her the cream off the milk,' he said, looking at Sam fondly.

'Well, she was all skin and bone,' Sam said, glancing anxiously at the cat. Then he looked at Legolas with an equally concerned expression and Legolas managed not to wince. He knew he looked thin, he could feel the bones of his face when he touched it. He could not look in a mirror.

The little cat shoved her head against his hand. 'She seems quite well now,' he said softly, for her ribs were well covered and not a bone could be felt under her luscious and glossy coat. 'You have looked after her really well.'

Sam looked pleased and Pippin beamed.

'Now we just have to look after you too, Legolas,' Merry said cheerfully. 'Good thing you are back with us so we can feed you up! Men never really know what a good meal is. Remember the first time we met Strider and he had never heard of Second Breakfast,' he exclaimed, still with horror.

Pippin shuddered appreciatively and added, 'It's nice to have an early breakfast. We still have proper breakfast AND Second Breakfast to look forward to.'

'Maybe we should have brunch as well,' Merry said, looking critically at Legolas.

'Yes. Good idea, Merry.' Pippin sat down and piled toast onto Legolas' plate where Merry started buttering it. Glaurung purred loudly and licked a bit of butter that fell onto the table.

Legolas watched with a sense of strange dislocation. Could this be real? He reached out and picked up one of the little rolls of bread, slightly sweet from the glaze Sam used and swiped it over the butter without using the knife. Like he used to. The taste was glorious, fresh from the oven and he closed his eyes. Sam had brought them every day since he had been returned but they tasted suddenly so much better here amongst the Hobbits.

He realised they had fallen silent and he opened his eyes suddenly frightened, but they were still there, watching him with attentive, anxious faces and he realised how worried they had been for him. His hands fell to his sides and he looked down at Glaurung, or Lobelia as perhaps he should call her now. He had been so careless and arrogant, assuming that he could catch the Ghoul, not giving a second thought for his own safety, or his friends.

'I am sorry,' he said quietly.

There was a baffled silence. 'For worrying you,' he explained. 'For running off and not telling anyone. For getting caught and putting you all at risk. For…'

'Hush.' A warm hand closed over his, so much smaller than his own, but the firmness of the touch, the reassurance was overwhelming. Frodo smiled at him. 'How could you ever think that you are responsible for this?' he asked. 'It would be like me thinking I am responsible for the War because I didn't get to Rivendell sooner.'

Legolas lifted his gaze to Frodo's.

'You went after the Ghoul in the same way that you shot the Nazgul's winged beast over the Anduin,' Pippin said. 'Or the same way you rescued Sam from the river.'

Sam nodded. 'I'd have drowned if you hadn't waded in and fished me out, even though you could have been swept away yourself.'*

'Or the same way that you went back for Gimli in Moria.'

The Hobbits gathered round him, nodding and agreeing with each other. He met Frodo's gaze again, saw how the Hobbit was still so deeply wounded by the loss of the Ring, by the morgul blade that had struck him on Amon Sûl, by the quest. He felt ashamed of his own misery then, and inspired by Frodo's courage. He looked at Sam who met his gaze with the same quiet courage that was always there, and then Pippin who had searched for Merry until he found his cousin on the battlefield and would not give up. And then Merry, who had struck the Witchking and destroyed him.

He was home. Suddenly he felt overwhelmed and honoured and blessed. He smiled back at Frodo and for the first time since he had left this house, he felt safe.

The Hobbits gave each other pleased little glances and began talking all at once. Pippin declared it was proper breakfast and he would do the honours since he was by far the best at bacon and eggs.

'I think we're out of bacon and sausages,' Sam said quickly, hurrying into the kitchen. 'Let's finish off those potatoes and mushrooms, eggs and tomatoes. I've got some nice left overs we can put in as well.'

Legolas did not notice the curious little glances the Hobbits gave Sam but none of them said anything. Not even Pippin. Merry poured endless cups of tea which Legolas had become used to and liked and Frodo sat and told him about the preparations that were underway for Aragorn's wedding.

'Where is Gimli?' Legolas asked finally, the question that had been burning his heart.

'Oh, he is very busy with preparations too,' Sam said a little mysteriously. Frodo smiled.

'He is just being Gimli,' Frodo added. Then he saw Legolas' distress and said quickly, 'He is perfectly all right. He is working on something for Aragorn that's all.'

'He has set up in one of the forges,' Pippin added from the kitchen. 'Happy as a pig in muck.'

Legolas breathed. Gimli was safe. It did not strike him as odd that the Dwarf was up and about even earlier than he, for Gimli liked the early morning and was often up and about before most others. 'And Gandalf?'

'Oh, he is being very mysterious and wizardly,' Merry said cheerfully, setting down a platter of fried potatoes and tomatoes and left overs. 'He's been deeply immersed in the libraries, seeing Faramir and Aragorn and all sorts of things.'

'Yes. He says he has found something of importance to Aragorn but won't say what it is,' added Pippin and he flipped eggs onto a hot plate which Merry brought over to the table and sat down. 'Here Legolas. These are from our very own hens, and the tomatoes are from our own garden and everything else has been brought in from the Lebinnin.'

Pippin and Merry piled his plate up and Sam poured apple juice from the apples from their own tree. For a while they watched him eat, smiling and chatting. He fed bits of egg to the cat which she took daintily and he ate the rest as if he was starving. It was the first time he had felt properly hungry and he ate everything on his plate and then had seconds.

'Remember that competition we had?' Pippin said laughing as he slid more potatoes onto Legolas' plate.

Legolas looked up puzzled.

'The sausages,' Merry remembered and laughed. Legolas paled, remembering how he had stuffed as many sausages into his mouth in one go. Now it made him feel sick. Merry carried on oblivious. 'You two…'

'Merry, you are going to knock that teapot over if you carry on jiggling about!' snapped Sam loudly. 'And Pippin, I think you've left the pan on the stove. Go and check it's turned off. Go on, both of you, Now!' He was so commanding and it was so unexpected, they jumped up and scurried off as told and Frodo looked up in astonishment. But Sam jumped to his feet and stood by Legolas. "It's all right,' he said soothingly but he did not touch Legolas, just stood near him and talked in a low, reassuring voice. 'We're here. and it's just potatoes and stuff. It's all right. Sip this tea. It will help.'

Legolas blinked. He did as Sam told him, sipping the strong, scalding tea and letting the bitterness bring him back. Yes. It was all right, he told himself. He was with Sam. He was safe. When Gimli returned it would be even better.

0o0o0o

After breakfast, Legolas sat with Frodo beneath the apple tree and listened to the blackbird singing. The sun was warm on his face and Lobelia/Glaurung had not left his lap for a second and was curled up there. Even when he had stood up to follow Frodo, she had clawed her way up to this shoulder and stood precariously on her tiptoes to be carried out into the garden. Frodo sat quietly, drew out his pipe and filled it. Then he sucked on the pipe to draw the smoke and puffed contentedly. But slowly, the draws became slower and Frodo's breathing was faster. His pipe lay in his hand and his eyes were unfocused.

'Frodo?'

Legolas patted the hobbit's hand gently. 'Frodo? Frodo, you are here in the House of the Fellowship. Merry and Pippin and Sam are here. As am I.'

Frodo blinked slowly and his gaze refocused upon Legolas. He squeezed Legolas' hand. 'I have always felt safer when you were around,' he said softly and Legolas' heart clenched. He looked down at their clasped hands.

Surely Frodo would not feel that now, not after he had been so duped?

'I am so glad you are back,' Frodo continued as if he had read Legolas' thoughts. He paused and then said softly, 'In Mordor, I had forgotten the feel of the sun. I could not remember grass, or the sound of a brook.' He sat for a moment and Legolas was silent. 'When you are here, Legolas, I can just begin to see it again and the shadows pull back.'

Legolas looked at him uncertainly. Frodo returned his gaze with a smile and his eyes were clear. 'It is better now that you are back.'

A thread had come loose on Legolas' brown tunic that the healers had given him. He had already been pulling it but he resisted it now. It irritated both Gimli and Elrohir, he knew and he was trying not to do that. Instead he picked at his cuticle and thought carefully. He made Frodo feel safe.

Suddenly that was the most important thing in the world.

'Do you feel safer now?' he asked quietly, knowing there was a slight tremor in his voice.

Frodo nodded and lifted his face towards Legolas, and he was so serious. 'Always,' he said. 'Always.' His eyes were weighted with grief. 'I still dream of ash. I still wake, thinking the Ring is about my neck and the Eye sees me.' He leaned forwards and rested his fists on his knees, let his head drop. 'Do you think it will ever pass?'

Legolas breathed; how selfish he had been. 'I hope that it will,' he said gently. He leaned slightly against Frodo, just enough to warm him, and listened. Deeper than sound, below the sounds of the world. He listened for Frodo's song.

There was nothing at first. Emptiness. Dry. A stony desert. Unbearable heat. Ash.

He closed his eyes and listened more deeply, hummed lightly under his breath, and tried to push his way through the ash… but he could not hear Frodo's song, and so he sang softly of tall beech trees crowding over the hill beneath which were the Elvenking's halls, the tall silver beeches spread branches of gold and russet and brown. He sang softly of the forest river, and its little streams that poured and gurgled over granite and slate into mossy pools where the beech leaves floated. He sang of the woods in Spring when the new green leaves unfurled in the sunlight. And all the time, he listened for the slightest note, the little strain of melody that was Frodo…it was there somewhere, he was certain. He was no great healer though, he just knew the Song.

…and there it was, finally. He smiled and tilted his head towards Frodo, hearing it then, the smallest trickle of water, a whisper of wind through leaves…Like a shy deer stepping slowly into a clearing. Gently he coaxed it, along the shady pools and sandy little banks of the river, beneath the oak trees.

He touched Frodo's feä very, very lightly. Tell me of the hills, he questioned, and slowly it was revealed; rolling hills and fields, the chuckling streams and woods. Mist lying in the valleys in the early morning.

'I can…almost remember,' murmured Frodo.

Their hands clasped and they sat, Frodo leaning slightly against Legolas and Legolas with his face tipped up towards the sun and singing softly. It was the first time he had felt peace since he had left here on that ill-fated day that he had followed the Ghoul into the Tombs.

It was well after Second Breakfast that Lobelia suddenly jumped down from Legolas' lap and run back into the house with a delighted little pirrup of welcome.

Frodo smiled up at Legolas. 'I think that will be Gimli. Lobelia thinks he belongs to her.'

They could hear the stamp of the Dwarf's boots and the rumbling voice like gravel in the River Running as Gimli greeted the little cat as Azaghâl, warrior and terror of Rats and mice. Suddenly, Legolas felt everything in himself align and restore. He felt his sinews, muscles, tendons relax and his lips parted in a sigh. His eyesight sharpened and his hearing found the deep sonorous Song of the Khazâd, like the deep heart of the Mountain.

Gimli appeared in the garden. He was carrying something long, wrapped in an oilcloth and the little cat danced between his legs as he walked towards them. Several times he almost tripped over her and once she yowled for he had stood on her. He immediately scooped her up and coddled her appeasingly.

'Well it's a good thing you are back to take care of this fleabag,' he scolded Legolas. The other Hobbits trailed after him, smiling.

'Here, I'll take Lobelia,' said Sam proprietorially but Gimli hung onto the cat.

'It's all right, Sam. I wouldn't trouble you.'

'It's no trouble and I have some cream for her an' a bit of fish if you let her come in.'

At that, it seemed that Gimli had decided Azaghâl should eat like the queen she was and both Sam and Gimli fussed and exclaimed what a good cat she was until she was passed from one to the other.

At last Gimli turned back to Legolas, delight in his brown eyes, deep like the earth. 'Welcome home, Legolas. Your timing is usually terrible, but for once, it is perfect. Here.' Sliding the oilcloth away from the long package he held, he handed it to Legolas. The package was wrapped in green silk and a thong of black leather bound it.

Surprised and pleased, Legolas glanced at Gimli. The Dwarf was watching him with the careful expression of one who wanted to please but thought he might not. Legolas pulled the thong free and the cloth fell to the ground, revealing a pair of dark brown leather sheaths. Serviceable but not ornate. Protruding from each of the sheaths however, were a pair of perfect, smooth ivory handles. In each hilt was set a small but deep green emerald and delicate tracery was etched around each emerald so it resembled an eye. Legolas knew immediately the worth of the emeralds.

He stared at them, watching how the light reflected in them, the depth of colour, the richness. Even his father would be impressed.

'The ivory is from the Mumâk I brought down,' Gimli said unapologetically and Legolas could only laugh at his outrageous cheek. 'I have carved them to fit the shape of your hands, but now I can refine the hilts so they are yours perfectly,' he said beaming.

Slowly, Legolas drew the twin knives from the plain leather sheaths. They slid easily free with a swish of sharp steel. Sunlight caught on the metal and flowed over the blades, poured over the engraved and etched swirls and patterns. He held them up to the light in wonder and hefted each on his hands, finding them even more perfectly balanced than he thought possible. The edges were sharp enough to cut the green silk that had wrapped them.

But there was something else; he felt a warmth steal over him, like a blessing. Protection. It seemed that the emerald eyes blinked awake at his touch and slid their watchful gaze over him..

 _We are named Ale Gezên-aozh, the All-seeing,_ they spoke in sharp little whispers. _We see all, before and behind. We will guard._

Legolas stared at the blades, the swirling runes and patterns. Those patterns looked familiar, light sliding over the blades, twining about them and then a pattern resolved and he gasped in recognition for they were a replica of his own yarë-carmé.

He could not speak but laid them on his lap and reached over to clasp both of Gimli's clever square hands in his and though he did not speak, for he could not, Gimli nodded and smiled, pleased.

0o0o

Later that day Aragorn visited them, brought in a litter of some kind, a covered chair such as the ladies of the city used for he was still not healed enough to walk far. They did not even know it was Aragorn until he stepped carefully from the door of the chair, and the two burly Guards who carried it saluted smartly. Aragorn turned to them faintly embarrassed it seemed. He leaned slightly on a cane although he did not limp.

Gandalf had returned with him although he did not sit in the chair but followed closely. He looked impossibly smug and Aragorn told them it was Gandalf that had found a sapling of the White Tree and it had been returned to the city.

'And tomorrow, Arwen will be here and we will be wed.' Aragorn said with, as Pippin pointed out, the soppiest smile. The Hobbits laughed and threw things at him in delight and then they sat and ate the bread and cheese and fruit that Sam pulled together for a hurried and unexpected supper. There was of course also a variety of vegetable pies and cheese tarts, treacle tart and honey cakes and custard and cream, chutneys and pickles and all manner of good things.

'My brothers have returned to Elrond's camp for tonight,' Aragorn said with a meaningful look at Legolas, which the Elf ignored. 'They will enter the city together with Arwen and bring her here. I hope you will all stand with me, my friends?' he asked a little hesitantly, hopefully. 'I would have you there at my side if you would.'

There was a delighted chorus of agreement.

'Arwen has had suitable clothes made for you,' he added, a little proudly of his capable and efficient betrothed. 'She has organised everything. All I have to do is turn up!'

'That is as well,' exclaimed Pippin. 'As it's all you can do anyway!' There was a good humoured protest on Aragorn's behalf.

'There is one more thing,' Merry said amid the teasing. 'We have something for you.' He stood and went into a small parlour that was little used and returned quickly with a long wooden box, beautifully made and inscribed.

Merry handed it to Frodo who stood ceremoniously and gave Aragorn a long, affectionate look. 'Only Legolas has yet to add his mark to this but we want you to have it now. In private,' said the Hobbit and handed the long box to Aragorn. The Fellowship went quiet and watched pleased as Aragorn opened the box and drew from it a scroll. He unrolled it carefully and his face transformed with delight.

'A map of our journey!' he exclaimed.

'And one of the Shire too,' Frodo added. 'We thought you would like it to add to what you already have in the palace.'

''Did you make it?' asked Aragorn looking at Frodo.

'Well, we all had a bit to do. Gimli made the box and we all added our journeys. Once Legolas has done his, it will be complete.'

There were inks and pens brought then and Legolas was encouraged to finish it now so that Aragorn could take it back with him.

So Legolas sat quietly on the bench in the parlour while the Fellowship chatted and talked in the kitchen behind him. He looked at the map that was already drawn; the Shire, Amon Sûl, the Trollshaws. There was Imladris, the First Homely House, the Bruinen and the Misty Mountains. Gimli too had already drawn the Lonely Mountain in the north and the Great Forest. He had left the name of the Wood blank however and not marked anything of the elves' northern kingdom.

Carefully Legolas wrote in his very best handwriting, _Thranduil's Halls, Kingdom of the Greenwood,_ and _The Forest River._ He tried hard not to smudge the ink like he often did when writing dispatches and both Thalos and Laersul complained of, and then added the _East Bite_ , and various other names that he knew. Sitting back, he blew on the wet ink and then dipped his pen in a jewel-like green ink and drew a dotted line showing his own journey. Hereabouts was where Alagos had been injured and had to return with Galadhon. And about here was where the Nazgûl had passed him. Of course he knew now that they had been vanquished by Elrond at the Ford of the Bruinen but he had not known that at the time. Tracing his journey on the map, he found Imladris and thought how it had poured with rain the day he had reached the Valley, and the Dwarves had mistaken him for a servant of the House and plonked their soaking cloaks in his arms. Smiling now as he sat in the parlour, he realised he must have looked comical, bedraggled and bemused for he could not work out how to enter the First Homely House. Of course he had been pushing the door when he should have pulled. Or perhaps he had been pulling when he should have pushed? He could not remember now. He wondered if Gimli had realised it was Legolas over whom he had thrown his wet cloak.

The pen rested for a moment on the Valley. It was here that he had seen Elrohir for the first time, emerging out of the sunlight and striding past Legolas like a god, barely turning his head while Legolas had stared rapturously as he passed. Shaking his head, Legolas laughed at himself; he had been an innocent in truth. Maybe experienced as a lover, but he had never been in love, had no idea how it would sweep him up and take over his heart so completely. And now he thought of Elrohir and realised how cold he had been to his beloved, how he had shunned his touch.

Unfairly, he told himself, for it had been Elrohir who had risked himself to find Legolas, first agreeing to whatever it was that Bearos had demanded of him, and then refusing to leave Legolas in the cell, though the Nazgûl swarmed and pounded at the Glass…

Legolas frowned. What HAD Bearos demanded?

It had been Elrohir that Angmar had wanted.

He lifted his head and stared into the garden. It was getting dark. The blackbird was singing out the day and bringing in dusk. Overhead, gulls wheeled and the last light caught on their wings….He followed their flight, listened to their call….

…until a strong square hand landed on his shoulder and he did not startle or jump for he knew that it was Gimli and that whilst Gimli was there, nothing bad could happen.

'Are you finished now, lad?' Gimli asked softly. 'You've been here a while and we wondered what you were writing on that.'

Legolas nodded and rose to his feet. His muscles moved smoothly now and his body felt stronger, his sinews elastic and free. He was healing as he should be; quickly, bones knitting, blood thickening and replenishing.

When he entered the cosy kitchen again, all of his companions had lit various pipes and were puffing contentedly, drinking ale or beer, or wine in Gandalf's case.

Gimli and Legolas stood in the doorway for a moment, watching.

Legolas breathed in and out deeply. The fragrance of pipeweed filled him with nostalgia, and he stored the moment away for later, for in his long life he would need these memories to sustain him. But he did not want to think on that now.

'I think it is finished,' he said and handed the map to Aragorn. 'It just needs yours now.'

Aragorn looked up and smiled delightedly as he took it. 'This will go in my study,' he said looking round at all of them. 'It will help me to remember this. Our adventure. Our…' He swallowed and looked at each of them much as Legolas had a moment ago.

'This map will remind you that you have good friends who will come when you need them,' Pippin said cheerfully. 'As I am on the Order of the Tower, I expect to be coming here quite a lot, just keeping an eye on things.'

'And I will always be close,' Gimli said. 'For Eomer has granted me a kingdom of my own, in Anglarond and will open up the Mountains to our folk so you and your kingdom have prosperity and riches in ores, minerals and metals.'

Legolas looked at him sharply. He had not known this before. That meant that Gimli and Aragorn would be here in the south. Suddenly the Greenwood felt very far away.

'And you will reunite the northern and southern kingdoms surely,' Frodo said, 'so you will come to the Shire or nearby often.'

'Yes. But probably you will have to stay in the Smails,' said Pippin brightly with a quick look at Merry, 'as that is the only dwelling the Shire grand enough or big enough.'

'I don't know about that, Pip,' Merry protested. 'Brandybuck Hall is probably bigger. It's certainly better constructed…'

And so a light-hearted argument ensued.

Aragorn watched for a while and then quietly settled himself beside Legolas. 'How goes it, my old friend?' he asked and Legolas lifted a wry eyebrow.

'I would ask the same of you,' he said. 'But I will answer first. I am very much better. At first I think I was very weak but I am stronger every day. I have new knives from Gimli,' he said and showed Aragorn the knives.

Aragorn drew them carefully from the plain leather sheaths and spun the knives in his hands. He whistled quietly. 'Truly a remarkable gift. Beautifully made.' He sighted along the blades appreciatively. 'And the ivory is from where?'

Legolas opened his mouth to speak but Gimli interrupted. 'There was a bit of old tusk lying around on the battlefield. I think it had been forgotten. I believe a Mumâk tripped at the same time as some careless fellow aimed an arrow at it. I am sure the arrow missed but the beast ditched all the archers it was carrying. Of course only an inveterate cheat would claim it as more than one but who am I to say?'

He looked about the company innocently but Aragorn gave him an appreciative look.

'I marvel that you found such a gift so easily,' he said knowingly. 'I was certain that all the ivory had been sent with Umbar. To get such quality as this, you would have had to trade much and ride far. But I know you do not like to ride, Master Gimli so I have to accept that you 'found' this as you describe.'

Legolas looked at Gimli bewildered. 'Did you ride to Umbar?' he asked astonished.

'Of course not,' Gimli snapped. 'What a ridiculous idea.'

But Pippin snorted and Merry laughed out loud. 'Maybe not to Umbar.'

'Pelargir is far enough to make a Dwarf quite saddle sore. Even on a pony,' Pippin said gleefully.

'That was why he has been away for so long,' added Merry with a wide grin.

Legolas turned back to Gimli. Such friendship. No, such love, warmed him more than any fire. Gimli had gone to such trouble to make the knives as like his old ones as could be. He was moved beyond words and for a moment, he could only sit and smile. Gimli shifted uncomfortably.

Legolas' smile blazed. He laughed then, as merrily as he had ever done under the Greenwood. 'I have named you Elvellon before now,' he said, 'but now I name you my brother.' He clasped Gimli's shoulder and arm. 'You knew what I needed before I knew myself.'

'Well, that wasn't hard,' Gimli said grumpily. 'Your head in the clouds or the trees and always looking up, you don't see the ground and would stub your toe every time you went outside if you didn't have a dwarf looking out for you. This way I can be sure you will be safe even without me.'

The knives at his side hummed softly, their whisper reassuring, anticipating battle. It thrilled his warrior's nerves and he suddenly wanted to laugh and swing into the branches of the apple tree and dangle by his knees to tangle twigs in Gimli's hair, to plot mischief with Pippin.

He was safe. He was recovering and getting stronger. He had knives to hand and could defend himself and he would never be so easily duped again.

0o0o

*I haven't written these episodes - yet - but there is a wonderful fic that chronicles such events. It is by Indigo Bunting on Stories of Arda and is called THE RIVER. Do read it.


	45. Chapter 45 The Wedding

* From ROTK

To Earthdragon- Ha! Merry thinks HE was instrumental in killing the Witchking:) He thinks Eowyn does have something towards it too though.

Also thanks to the wonderful reviewers who encourage and support and keep me posting. Spiced Wine (and thank you for lending me Tindómion) Pame, Paradis _artificiels, Golden, Starfox5000, keekercat, (hope you like the Elrond bit) LayneWolf, twinjay, Naledi, Gabriel, Narya, Nash, Nelyafinwe Feanorian, Freddie 23, Mirrordance, Nako, earthdragon, Raider-K.

 **Chapter 45: The Wedding**

It was the Eve of Midsummer and over the towers of Minas Tirith, the sky was that sapphire blue just before evening and the stars were opening in the east. But the West was still golden and the air was cool and fragrant when riders came down the North-way to the gates of Minas Tirith. First rode Elrohir and Elladan with a banner of silver streaming in the wind, and then came Glorfindel and Erestor and the household of Rivendell, and after them came the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn upon white steeds and with them many fair folk of their land, grey cloaked and with white gems in their hair. And at last came Lord Elrond, mighty among Elves and Men and he bore the great sceptre Annúminas, and beside him on a grey palfrey rode Arwen, his daughter, Evenstar of her people.*

Waiting for them at the gateway to the Seventh and final level, the Fellowship stood amongst the great lords of Gondor. There was a joyful buzz, cheerful chatting, laughing and a sense of happy anticipation. On the left side of Aragorn stood Legolas and Gimli, and Gandalf stood on the right with Faramir. Legolas avoided Faramir's gaze and looked instead over the heads of the Hobbits who stood in front of him, almost dancing with delight.

Aragorn turned briefly towards Legolas, his face nervous and excited. Legolas caught Pippin's eye and they both laughed at Aragorn and nudged each other amiably. But if Legolas were honest, he was excited as Aragorn, for Elrohir was approaching. He could feel it, like a storm, like the incoming tide. Inexorable. His nerves tingled with it.

'It is a great day for Gondor.' A voice spoke from behind him and he turned slightly to see Hirluin, with whom he had fought at The Black Gate. It was gladly said. With him was the brave and dashing Lord Duilin, Legolas remembered him well standing before the Morannon and hewing the necks of orcs in the tide that seemed certain to overwhelm them all.

'Does it not do your heart good to see a Queen on the throne and at our new King's right hand? And an elven maid no less! She will bring peace and prosperity.' Angbor was alongside them and he strained to see for he was shorter than both his comrades and only a little taller than Gimli.

'Ah, there is the Prince of Dol Amroth,' said Duilin as the first horses hoved into view, elegant greys with long flowing manes and tails. Imrahil led the way, followed closely by ten of his knights and a young woman. They turned their horses easily and dismounted. Their elvish blood was evident in their grace and beauty and when the young woman turned, Legolas saw that she had pale gold hair and was tall and athletic. She moved with elegance and confidence and smiled graciously at the crowd, her face very alike Imrahil himself with strong cheekbones, a definite nose and firm mouth. Her eyes too, like his, were blue and smiling. Not beautiful but Legolas thought her handsome and saw how men would appreciate her. And women too no doubt. Imrahil led three of the knights and the woman towards Aragorn and bowed.

'These are my children, majesty. My sons, Elphir, Erchirion, Amrothos.' Strong, tall, handsome young men. Legolas realised that he had seen Elphir before during the battle of the Morannon. Then Imrahil brought forward the young woman and she smiled confidently and sank into a curtsey. 'My daughter. Lothíriel.' She did not dip her eyes as might be expected but met Aragorn's gaze, her eyes bright and curious. A little mischievous.

'Welcome,' Aragorn said. He bowed courteously to her but indeed, he barely spared her a glance for he looked towards the gate in his yearning for Arwen. And there was no time for more anyway for the Rohirrim arrived almost immediately, clattering in on their horses, all tossing manes and high tails, flashing spears and teeth.

Eomer swung down from Firefoot and flung his reins to one of his warriors and strode towards Aragorn with a wide grin. His brown eyes flickered over Legolas but Legolas did not look at Eomer, not wanting to see any pity and concern in those brown eyes that had looked upon him once with entirely different emotions.

I will not pity myself, Legolas reminded himself and squared his shoulders. I am here for Aragorn. I am part of the Fellowship, he told himself determinedly. But he felt himself cringe a little nonetheless for he knew that if Eomer did not seek him out, Eowyn would and she would insist on knowing the details so she could ascertain his fitness and decide if he should be allowed even outside. But it will be a concern born of kindness and affection, he told himself and so vowed he would appease her.

Aragorn was already embracing Eomer warmly and moved slightly to create a space for the King of Rohan between Faramir and Imrahil. Lothiriel, who stood with her father, barely moved to make way for him and her proud head did not yield the slightest recognition of his status as King. Legolas liked her even more for that. Eowyn followed, still moving a little stiffly and Aragorn greeted her in a manner that Legolas recognised as the way Legolas himself had treated Eomer after he had told Eomer that there was no more between them than friendship: over-tender, cautious, stepping carefully around the young King like he was cut glass. Aragorn's smile was overly warm, his touch almost cosseting and Legolas saw how she flinched from him but her eyes, oh, her eyes still followed him. How could she not? He was Elessar, the King Returned, and resplendent in his black and silver silk shirt and crimson velvet surcoat. The black cloak that flowed from his shoulders was embroidered with the white tree and the winged crow of Gondor was upon his head. He looked glorious and Legolas could not blame Eowyn for only having eyes for Aragorn. She stood between her brother and Faramir, who only had eyes for her.

Legolas could not help narrowing his eyes at the Steward's attentiveness to Eowyn, for he had a great fondness for her himself. Had they not thrown off the fog of Saruman's tyranny over Rohan together? And he could not forget how Faramir had been implicated in his own capture, though Aragorn insisted it was all part of Bearos' elaborate plan.

But they could hear the cheering of the crowds in the city below as the wedding party approached and the excited chatter of the people around him rose like an echo.

In front of him, the Hobbits' curly heads bobbed up and down in delighted anticipation and Pippin was almost bouncing on his toes. Since they had drunk the mysterious Entwash, both Merry and Pippin had grown taller than any Hobbit and Gimli growled at them to stop impeding his view for he longed to see the Lady Galadriel once more and he could barely contain his excitement.

'Is she here yet?' he asked for the umpteenth time and Legolas smiled for Aragorn had just asked him the same, hoping that Arwen was here. But did he not feel the same, for Elrohir was only moments away?

The last time he had seen Elrohir, Legolas knew he had not been himself, still nervous and jumping at shadows. But he felt well now, and oh, how he wanted Elrohir's strong body near him, his hands on the warm skin, tangling his fingers in the long night-silk hair. He felt more like himself. Perhaps the fine clothes that Arwen had commissioned for the fellowship helped? Not stuck in the linen shifts of the Houses of Healing, but properly attired, he felt covered up, not so vulnerable.

The deep turquoise velvet surcoat fitted him far more closely than he would have chosen himself and the turned up collar was stitched with the gold thread and scattered with the white gems his people liked so much. He thought Gimli may have had a hand in that for Arwen surely did not know. The silk shirt was finer than the linen he had always worn and the buttons were gold, like the ones on Gimli's new deep russet velvet surcoat. In fact, Legolas thought Gimli looked like a dwarf-lord of the ancient world in truth, his beard combed and oiled to gleaming softness and braided with small golden beads and jewels. A smile touched his lips at the sight of his friend. He had fussed and fussed over his preparations knowing he would see the Lady Galadriel for he was as besotted with her as Legolas was with her grandson.

Legolas wiggled his feet in the new boots that were butter-soft suede and so comfortable in spite of their newness that he forgot about the buttons, and brushed his fingers lightly over the handles of the knives at his back that he kept with him in spite of the convention to not carry weapons in the King's presence. But recent events had made everyone wary, and besides, Gimli leaned on his great axe so it seemed right that Legolas should also be armed. It made Legolas feel safer. He wished he had a bow too but he had bought suitable throwing knives from an armourer in the city whose work was very fine, though they were not as fine as Gimli's gift.

'Is she here?' Aragorn muttered and Legolas dragged his attention back to the present.

Legolas leaned towards him. 'Yes. Listen. There are bells and laughter, elven voices.' But more than that; he could sense Elrohir! His Song threaded through the air, sought Legolas and wound about him like the scent of snow, pristine on the high mountain tops where no man trod. It was the eagle's cry high on the cold blue thermals. His own Song leapt and reached to touch Elrohir, its green-gold light dancing lightly through the warm, scented air of the summer evening. Legolas was oblivious to the chatter and laughter, giggling and high spirits of the Hobbits for his sole focus was Elrohir.

They could hear cheering from the crowds in the city below. Where Legolas stood however, at the Palace Gate and looking over the Citadel Square, there was a hush as those gathered here listened to the crowds below. Like a wave, the cheering drew closer and closer, louder and louder. And then suddenly it broke over them and was all around him as horses clattered into view and the crowds erupted. There were Elrohir and Elladan, each holding aloft a great silver banner that streamed behind them and then Arwen, flanked by Elrond and Galadriel. On either side of Legolas, first Aragorn, then Gimli sighed. And Legolas smiled, for here at last was his own Elrohir, clear grey eyes seeking him out.

His heart bounded in his chest and his cock leapt in excited anticipation. He could not help it! Elrohir was glorious in black and silver, his sleeves slashed to show crimson silk and his sable cloak lined with the same crimson. Barakhir tossed his head and his long black mane streamed and the sunlight flashed on his silver bit. Elladan was dressed identically but Legolas thought Elrohir outshone his brother.

Suddenly Elrohir caught sight of Legolas and his face lit with delight and love Barakhir seemed to catch his rider's excitement for he pranced and shook his head showily. And then the rest of the wedding party arrived, Glorfindel and Erestor, Tindómion, Saeldir and Annaeal, whom Legolas knew from before he had set out with Aragorn upon the quest. They caught sight of Legolas in the crowd and raised their hands in greeting.

Already he had lost sight of Elrohir amid the surging crowd of horses and Elves and Men, as the party dismounted and grooms hurried forward to take the horses. Arwen rushed forwards and Aragorn was hurrying towards her too, to take her hands and then sweep her into a kiss that had the crowd roaring with delight.

Gimli was bowing low to Galadriel and she was smiling at him and saying something appreciative that had Gimli beaming and flushed. Celeborn watched with faint amusement. Glorfindel was there, and Erestor inclined his head towards Tindómion and other Elf lords whom Legolas did not know. Smiling and nodding impatiently, he pushed through the crowd, searching.

And suddenly there was Elrohir, his back to Legolas and leaning towards Glorfindel, who was throwing his head back laughing and the sunlight gleamed on his hair as if it recognised the beloved of the Valar.

Legolas pushed his way through to Elrohir's side, wanting to kiss him the way Aragorn had kissed Arwen. But he and Elrohir had promised Aragorn that they would be discrete for their love was not understood here and so, although he wanted to run his hands down the strong back, to card his fingers through the night-silk hair, he slapped Elrohir on the back like he might Anglach and threw his arm over his beloved's shoulder, like he might have done to Thalos.

'Well met,' he said grinning at Elrohir's startled look. He leaned over as if he were whispering some ribald comment but instead he breathed over Elrohir's perfect round ear, which he wanted to lick. There was a satisfying shiver from Elrohir who bit his lip as if he too had to control himself.

'Come on you two,' Elladan said wryly. 'Do not make Arwen wait any longer than she has to or she will rip the clothes from Estel's back.'

'Like I intend to do to you as soon as we are alone,' Legolas murmured quietly to Elrohir. He felt whole. Well. His nerves thrilled with Elrohir's nearness and his skin tingled with excitement, not fear. He smiled with pleased realization that he was healing.

'You'll have to let go of me go for a moment,' Elrohir said reluctantly. 'I cannot be near you without wanting you. I am as bad as Arwen.' His eyes were smoky with lust.

Legolas laughed and unwound himself from Elrohir. 'For a moment only then,' he said, equally reluctant. Elladan rolled his eyes and Erestor, who was nearby, glanced at them approvingly. It gave Legolas hope.

Behind him, the crowd suddenly surged forward and Legolas was jostled so he grasped at Elrohir's arm and steadied himself. A flash of crimson in the sunlight glinted from the ring on Elrohir's finger. A sudden image assaulted him; the Ghoul's elongated face, its dropped jaw full of teeth.

Legolas gasped and drew back but the image blinked out instantly. He stared at the crimson jewel that regarded him silently, watchfully.

And then he blinked. He remembered that Elrohir had told him on the way to the Morannon, that this ring had been given Elrohir by his mother before she departed. It was the same ring that had cut Legolas' cheek during the angry brawl on the pier in Lamedon when they rode amongst the Dead from the Stone of Erech.

Legolas shook himself. The ghost of Bearos that haunted him was a mere fancy, an illusion. He deliberately pushed it away and instead, hardened himself and turned to look over the heads of Men towards the King. Aragorn was leading Arwen into the Palace garden where they would be married. Behind her came her father, bearing a great sceptre and Galadriel and Celeborn along with many of their folk followed into the palace.

Elladan had already started following and Elrohir paused, looking at Legolas tenderly. 'I have to go,' he said apologetically but Legolas gave him a little shove.

'Go. It is a day to be with your nearest. Arwen will need you I think, and Elladan.' He stroked a hand down Elrohir's arm as a promise and watched as Elrohir made his way through the Elves following. Some of them turned and smiled or nodded graciously at Elrohir, and Legolas felt a swell of pride in his beloved as he went to take up his place at his brother's side.

Legolas made his way towards the Fellowship, finding them beaming at each other, so pleased and happy for Aragorn.

'Well,' said Frodo happily. 'If this is the ending, then it is a happy one!' He turned towards his friends and with a pang, Legolas saw how weary Frodo was in spite of the happiness that lit his face. 'It is soon time to go home, Sam,' Frodo continued. 'And find our own beds.'

'I wonder what you wish you'd find in your bed, Sam,' Pippin said mischievously and Sam blushed to the roots of his hair while Pippin winked and nudged Merry, but Merry just smiled fondly at Sam.

Slowly they made their way towards the Rose Garden where the wedding was to take place. They could not go any faster for the numbers of lords and ladies who walked the same way, chattering excitedly and glancing admiringly at the Fellowship as they passed.

At last they found their place on the terrace above the gardens where they had a good view of the assembled wedding party. Aragorn stood with Arwen, Elrond at her side and Galadriel on the other for she stood in for Celebrían. At Aragorn's side was Gandalf, and Elladan and Elrohir. Legolas thought Elrohir handsome and dashing in his black and silver and crimson.

'Will you keep your promise then?' A voice demanded at his elbow. He looked down at Gimli.

'Which one was that? To protect you on your way home?' Legolas said.

'Fool. As if I need protecting!' Gimli leaned on his great axe. 'When we leave, you and I were to ride home together or did you have another journey in mind?' He looked meaningfully towards where Elrohir had disappeared with his brother and father.

'Oh.' Legolas had not thought much beyond today if he were honest. He would have to return home and see his father, and brothers. To mourn those they had lost…To tell him his news also. But after that?

He looked out over the throng of people, towards the Sea and in his heart, he knew that Galadriel had been right; he could never truly settle back beneath the leaves of his home. He wondered what he would do instead. For the world was safe from the Shadow, and he thought he might enjoy travelling and seeing some of the places his friends had told him of, the Shire, of the Ered Luin. He thought he might like to see more of Gondor and he knew it was because his friends were here now and Anglach was gone.

'I will go home,' he said a little absently because he was thinking that Gimli had said he was going to settle in Anglarond. And Pippin was going to be in Minas Tirith a fair bit, which meant Merry would too. It seemed that he had a good many reasons for being closer to Minas Tirith than not. And Elrohir surely would be here more often.

Suddenly he was resolved. 'I will go back with you, Gimli, and keep the Fellowship a little longer. I may even visit you in Erebor,' he added mischievously.

Gimli looked appalled. 'Oh, I don't think I need a nursemaid back along the Forest River. I expect I'll leave you at the Forest Gate and take the rafts down to the Long Lake and from there back to Erebor,' he said hastily.

Legolas' eyes glinted. 'Do not think that my father will be happy just letting you go past the Forest without at least paying his respects to one of Thorin's kin. And a member of the Fellowship, Elvellon.' He had a wicked little smile on his lips.

Pippin listened, his mouth a little round oh.

'After all, I am sure you will be accommodated in the very best rooms Thranduil can offer,' Merry piped up and Pippin sniggered behind his hand nervously.

'Oh yes,' added Frodo and his eyes fastened upon Legolas and were alight with mischief. 'And there is sure to be a lot of good ale. Barrels of the stuff.'

Pippin nudged Merry and Merry nudged Sam and Sam nudged Frodo and then Pippin giggled nervously. 'But weren't the Dwarves put in the dungeons?'

Legolas looked offended. 'We do not have dungeons. They were store rooms actually and the Dwarves were very well looked after in fact and not very grateful.'

'Were you there, Legolas?' Pippin asked relentlessly.

Legolas blushed a little. 'Maybe. For a bit.'

Gimli was grinning widely. 'I heard that there were two completely clueless Elves were on duty that night…'

Legolas spluttered. 'I'll have you know that it was Bilbo's fault we…they were drunk!'

Pippin gazed up at Legolas with something akin to awe. 'That was you?'

'Might have been,' said Legolas evasively.

'Ah. There you are!' Gandalf interrupted fortunately with impeccable timing. 'Come along all of you. We are supposed to be witnesses to the marriage of Aragorn and you are standing here bickering like a bunch of old fishwives.'

Legolas was confused. Surely Gandalf had not said fishwives? Fish did not have wives. 'Fishwise?' he asked, looking at Gimli who was more familiar with mannish phrases.

Gimli shrugged bemused. He had never heard the term either but he thought it might have something to do with being knowledgeable about fish. 'Some fisherman thing perhaps? Or maybe a wizard thing. Saruman? Perhaps he talked to fish?' he muttered. 'He was supposed to be wise before he fell.' Legolas shook his head bemused. They followed Gandalf, who walked ahead, shepherding Frodo and Sam with him.

Legolas leaned down to murmur to Gimli, 'More likely to be Radagast. Come to think of it, I think he did.' He nodded at Gimli. 'Gandalf was comparing us to Radagast.'

Pippin was between Legolas and Gimli and looked first at one and then the other. 'Does he bicker with fish then?' asked Pippin brightly. Too brightly so that Legolas almost wondered if Pippin was laughing at them.

'Well, I suppose he must do,' said Legolas. He was happy, he realised, and flashed one of what Gimli called a dazzler, at Imrahil, who looked a little surprised and smiled back.

They almost walked into the backs of the Hobbits so busy they were whispering and wondering. Those in front of them had stopped for they had arrived at the lovely rose garden just as the sun sank over the far horizon of the mountains in the West. Above them the silver stars pricked out in the sky overhead and last of the swallows dived and swooped overhead in the evening sky.

Gandalf was saying something to Aragorn and Arwen and in front of them the lords of Gondor now gathered. Erestor turned and gave Legolas a flamboyant bow and a wolfish grin. Glorfindel nodded at them and bowed to Frodo.

'Well we were not bickering,' Legolas said concerned and continuing their conversation. He looked over the heads of those in front of him easily and glanced down at his companions. 'Come, if we go this way we can see more easily.' He led them to one side so they stood behind a low wall and could see Aragorn standing on a stone terrace with Arwen. They only had eyes for each other.

'Dwarves do not bicker,' Gimli muttered. 'We were reminiscing.'

'Yes. That is a better description of what we were doing,' Legolas agreed. 'Look at Aragorn. Doesn't he have a soppy smile on his face?'

Pippin and Gimli made appreciative noises and watched as Aragorn began to speak.

'Perhaps he meant reminiscing with fish?' Pippin whispered quietly so he could not be heard by anyone else. Legolas hummed in agreement and Gimli asked, 'Does Radagast reminisce with fish?"

Legolas frowned. 'What would he reminisce about with a fish?'

Arwen was speaking now, and her face was lit by the evening stars as they came out one by one, as if they wished to take part as well in the nuptials.

'Shhh,' someone nearby hushed them crossly and they looked at each other guiltily.

Elrond stood before both Arwen and Aragorn and took their hands in his. But whilst their faces shone with love for each other, Elrond's was devastated and he could barely speak for the grief. 'I call upon all those present as witness. I call upon Eru Illuvatar as witness. Here is my beloved foster-son, Aragorn, Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor. And here is my beloved daughter, Arwen Undómiel. They are pledged to each other in love. These rings of silver…'

'It must be confusing for those who don't know,' Pippin whispered.

Legolas frowned. 'Know what?' he whispered back.

'That Aragorn is not actually Arwen's brother. It sounds really complicated.'

Gimli grunted and they were shushed again by a grumpy looking matron. Legolas pressed his lips together to stifle a laugh for Pippin's face was very amusing.

Aragorn and Arwen were taking off silver rings and Galadriel came forwards then, bearing a small velvet cushion with two gold rings upon them. She smiled gently at them as the placed their silver rings upon the cushion and each picked up the gold ring and placed it on each other's fingers.

Aragorn was speaking his vows and Arwen smiled so sweetly up at him that he forgot what he was saying half way through and Gandalf had to prompt him.

In the good humoured laugh, Legolas slipped away from the Fellowship and slid between Erestor and Glorfindel and pressed himself against Elrohir as if he were merely trying to squeeze past. Elrohir slid an oblique smile at him and Legolas found his fingers and clasped them lightly. A frisson of excitement surged through him and he could hardly bear to wait to pull Elrohir into some side room and …

'Pay attention,' Elrohir murmured amused.

'It is hard,' Legolas muttered back with a lascivious grin.

'Behave you two,' growled Erestor but he wasn't irritated, merely amused. Glorfindel though gave Legolas a look that was too much like Thranduil for Legolas to ignore and he shut up long enough for Aragorn to finish his vows and a huge cheer go up through the gathered crowds.

Aragorn took Arwen in his arms and they kissed. An even louder cheer greeted that and Legolas could hear the Hobbits cheering loudly and Gimli thumping his axe on the ground appreciatively.

Legolas smiled and tilted his head slightly so his long hair sifted over his shoulder and he slanted his gaze at his beloved. Then he turned and carefully, courteously eased his way between the crowds. He glanced back over his shoulder at Elrohir who glanced once at the happy couple and then gracefully slid away, subtly making his way through the crowds.

Legolas bowed as he passed a number of Elves from Lothlorien that he recognised and onwards through the crowds of Elves and Men. Behind him, as he cast a look back, he saw that one of the lords of Gondor, Hirluin, had stopped Elrohir and spoke to him. Elrohir leaned his head down towards Hirluin and replied but he did not take his eyes off Legolas. He did not wait for Hirluin to respond but moved towards Legolas again.

Then it was Legolas who was stopped, this time by Imrahil, the suave Prince of Dol Amroth, who shared some words with him and then they were joined by Elladan, who only had eyes for Imrahil. Legolas was amused and moved away so he stood on the edge of the crowd where it was easy for Elrohir to join him.

'You are looking much better,' Elrohir observed with a smile. He brushed his hand against Legolas' hip and the jolt of lust that shot through Legolas almost had him swooning against Elrohir like some maiden. He laughed at himself.

'I feel much better,' he admitted. 'I just needed to be amongst my friends, out of the House of Healing and, as the Hobbits say, eating properly. But most importantly, I have these.' He half-slid one of the knives from their harness and showed Elrohir.

We are named Ale Gezên-aozh, the All-seeing, came the sharp little whispers as he drew the knives. We see all, before and behind. We will guard.

It seemed to Legolas that the emeralds in the hilt moved, like an eye watching as it had promised, but it was only the light flashing in its depths. A shimmer of blue gleamed along the edge of the blade and Legolas exclaimed for he had not seen them do this before.

'It is like the glow that Frodo's sword gives when orcs are near,' he observed and peered at them more closely. 'I wonder what has sparked this gleam.' He looked up at the sky nervously. 'Perhaps it is the moonlight.'

Elrohir gave a quiet whistle and held the blade carefully, tilting it to the light. Again, the blue light flared along the edges like fire. He examined the etchings on the blade and suddenly looked up at Legolas. 'You know these are…'

'Yes, Legolas said. He smiled for the etchings echoed his own yára-carmë and it pleased him that Elrohir recognised the swirling patterns for what they were. 'Do you think we might slip away for a moment?' he asked in a low voice, hoping that Elrohir wanted him as much as he wanted Elrohir.

He bit his lip, knowing his breathing was faster and deeper for he wanted Elrohir right now, wanted to see him close his eyes and throw his head back in glorious passion. He had not had sex since the night before Elrohir had left for Lothlorien to collect Arwen. It felt like a very very long time and too much had happened. He wanted, needed the warmth and heat of Elrohir inside him, to banish the constant threat of rape and horror of Bearos, his probing fingers and sharp talons. He wanted all that to be chased from his thoughts and memories, and to be filled instead with Elrohir.

'Come,' he murmured, looking down at Elrohir's full mouth that curved in a slight smile. 'The Tower of Ecthelion has some empty places that are perfect for what I have in mind.' He grinned for the memory of a small antechamber was sweet and a little wicked, risqué, and it filled him with delight.

'Not the Tower,' Elrohir said quickly and Legolas shrugged. He did not intend to ask any questions. Too much had happened and he had decided he would not be curious. And anyway, he didn't care where they fucked as long as they fucked. Long and hard. Or short and hard. As long as it was hard, he thought lecherously. And grinned.

'Why don't we go to my rooms?' Elrohir asked amused. He stood side by side with Legolas so that none would guess of what they spoke.

Except Elladan. And Erestor. And Glorfindel, Tindómion, the Hobbits, Aragorn, Arwen and Gimli. Probably Galadriel and that meant Celeborn too, Legolas thought. But did Elrond? Had Elrohir told his father about them? It had been what they argued about before Elrohir left. I will not ask, he told himself.

The evening lights were coming on and below thousands of pinpricks of golden light appeared, one by one, like stars. There was the sound of celebrating as the citizens of Minas Tirith toasted their dashing new King and his beautiful Queen.

Behind them the first of Gandalf's fireworks whooshed into the air and exploded in a shower of stars over the Pelennor Fields. They strolled along the edge of the wall towards the high hedge that divided the rose garden from the formal garden, as if merely admiring the fireworks.

To anyone who looked, it would seem they drifted towards the edge of the garden that looked out over the city. Behind them, a harp was strummed and an elvish voice lifted in song: the Lay of Luthien and Legolas laughed softly. A small bat whisked over the tops of the rose bushes.

'What?' Elrohir asked fondly.

Legolas shook his head amused. 'The Hobbits say this is Aragorn's only song. A little mournful for such an occasion, don't you think?' And he leaned against Elrohir, feeling the heat of his body, the long leanness of it. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by lust. 'I need to get you alone or I will take you right here and now.'

A little gasp broke from Elrohir and he looked at Legolas, lips parted and a wild gleam in his grey eyes.

'Legolas?' A voice came from behind them. Elrohir swore under his breath and Legolas turned to look over his shoulder.

It was Elrond. His face was kindly and concerned but Legolas felt Elrohir stiffen slightly, his body tensed and Elrond's smile wavered when he saw Elrohir there with Legolas.

'My lord Elrond.' Legolas bowed slightly.

Elrond inclined his head courteously though his eyes lingered a moment on Elrohir. 'I have heard lots about your courage and bravery, Legolas, both on the quest and in your pursuit of this Bearos, this Ghoul.' He lifted his goblet of wine. 'I congratulate you on all that you have accomplished.'

Legolas flushed. 'I thank you my lord, but really, I have done nothing that anyone else could have done.'

'So did I choose poorly?' Elrond smiled. 'I do not think so, and nor does Elrohir. He told me of your deeds.' His eyes were upon Elrohir as if inviting him to speak, to join him in his acclaim of Legolas' deeds.

Legolas flushed now with pleasure beyond words and his face shone as he looked at Elrohir gratefully. 'But Elrohir's deeds eclipse mine,' he said enthusiastically. 'Did he tell you? He saved my life three times. Once when I was shot by an arrow on the shores of the Anduin in Lebinnin. He took me abroad the Sea Song and healed me. Then again after the Battle of the Morannon.'

Elrohir shook his head and protested quietly, 'But you saved me in Osgiliath, and then again…'

'No, it was you saved me in Osgiliath,' Legolas laughed and his eyes shone with admiration and love. 'You leaned over the parapet and pulled me up.'

'It seems you are both beholden to each other,' Elrond observed gladly. He smiled warmly and his eyes lingered first on Legolas speculatively, and then drifted towards Elrohir. 'It is good that you have become so close,' Elrond said softly.

'Yes. We are.' Elrohir spoke with a hint of defiance, pride. 'Legolas is one of the most gifted warriors I have ever met.'

There was a strangely uncomfortable silence for the force of Elrohir's assertion seemed too strong for such a conversation and Legolas turned his head to look at Elrohir. He waited. And Elrohir said nothing more.

'Praise indeed,' Elrond said at last for the silence had stretched too far now. He slid a curious gaze from Legolas to his son.

'Well my lord,' said Legolas, a little stiffly, 'it has been an adventure indeed and I have made the best friends of my life. And more.' Legolas glared at Elrohir furiously, his lips thin and tight. 'But you will forgive me if I retire. I am still not quite recovered.'

'That is why I wanted to speak to you, Legolas,' Elrond said. 'I would offer you what healing I may, if you would have it.' He glanced at Elrohir's tight, drawn face and then said, a little hurriedly, 'Perhaps not now, but come to me tomorrow if you will. I am residing at the Houses of Healing for they have invited me to stay awhile and I…I would be close to Arwen whilst I can.'

Legolas dipped his gaze, ashamed. Of course Elrond and Elrohir were mourning. He was being so unreasonable expecting Elrohir to tell his father about them when they were both struggling with grief. 'I thank you my lord. Only a fool would turn away the greatest healer in Middle Earth. If you can soothe my spirit I will count myself blessed indeed.'

'Well, do not let me detain you when you are tired,' Elrond said kindly.

Legolas bowed once again and was about to turn away when he heard Elrohir take a breath. His eyes were anxious and then he reached out and plucked at his father's sleeve. 'Ada.'

Elrond turned immediately, his face surprised and pleased.

'Ada,' Elrohir said again. 'Legolas and I are…' He stumbled over the words and there was an awkward pause. 'I… We…'

Elrond smiled gently and touched Elrohir's cheek with immense tenderness. 'I can see. There is a bond between you that is there for anyone to see who cares to look.' His gaze took in both of them. 'I am pleased for you both.'

It seemed to break something in Elrohir then and his mouth trembled. 'Are you?'

'Of course!' Elrond seemed so surprised. He reached out and carefully, tentatively lay an arms over Elrohir's shoulder. 'How could I not be happy that you will choose the Way of the Elves? How could I not be happy that you are with such a brave and true soul as Legolas Thranduillion? Are you happy?'

Elrohir brushed a hand over his eyes and shook his head. 'I have never been happier in my life then when I am with Legolas,' he said.

0o0o

When they were at last alone, Legolas was happy. 'Thank you,' he said.

'What for?'

'You told your father about me, us.'

Elrohir watched him as he moved about Elrohir's room, picking things up restlessly, pacing. His long limbs were easy and comfortable now, so he must be healing well. There was still a slight hunch in his shoulders but that was to be expected given he had been strung up for so long and so often.

'Do you think you might start training again?' he asked gently, and knew he was avoiding Legolas' acknowledgement. It still felt odd to him that his father knew. But he had suddenly realised how important this had been for Legolas, and he had decided it would cost him nothing.

'Yes. If you think I can,' Legolas turned towards him, eyes bright and excited. 'I need something physical. I get so….bored!'

'I have something for you that might help.'

Elrohir had felt somehow that he had let Legolas down by not finding his weapons. They were no longer in the cell when he had rescued Legolas and might well be gone forever. He had thought about going back down there but he knew he could not. Khamûl was waiting for him. The Nazgûl had not gone, he had not been vanquished like his Brethren. He merely waited and Elrohir did not know quite what to do. But for now, he was safe. He had Legolas and he simply wanted to enjoy his beloved. And so he had asked a boon of his grandfather who had been pleased to grant it.

Now was the perfect time. Slowly he drew the long bow from where had so carefully placed it when he arrived. Anxiously he held it out to Legolas, hoping it would not matter that he had not had it made especially, that it was Celeborn's, hoping that Legolas would see it as the gift it truly was. For it was a magnificent bow, simple, elegant but immensely powerful. Made by the great bowmakers of old. And strung with Elrohir's own black hair.

'Is that for me?' Legolas' eyes shone. He took it from Elrohir with the reverence that only an archer could show. He lifted it and held it up so he could test the weight, sighted along the bow itself and then thrummed his fingers through the raven black hair and strung it skillfully. 'It is beautiful. More than that. There is… history to it. It is named already,' he murmured as if to the bow itself. 'And the hair…' He stroked his fingers along the hair and Elrohir felt it like he stroked his own skin and shivered delightfully. 'It is yours.' Legolas turned to him, smiling and so pleased. He kissed Elrohir. 'Who did you steal this from?' he teased. 'For this is a powerful weapon, seasoned and blooded.'

'It is called Cûlanthûl. It belonged to my grandfather and he has given it to me for you. It is a gift from him really.' Elrohir suddenly felt a little shy. He was not used to this, giving gifts to a lover. No. Not a lover. To his beloved. His one. He realised he wished to bond with Legolas.

'Ah. That is why it sings.' Legolas drew the bow back, bent it and tested the draw. 'This is a truly magnificent gift.' He put it down reluctantly. 'I cannot accept it. It is too great.' But his fingers lingered over the bow, its polished wood, the silk hair, and his eyes remained fastened on the bow.

Elrohir laughed. 'No. Indeed he wants you to have it. Says you are a worthy inheritor, now that he has fought his last battle he hopes. He will speak with you when you wish. But please.' Elrohir pressed Cûlanthûl back into Legolas' hands. 'Now you have both knives and bow. You are complete. I know how it is.' Indeed he did, for he remembered how it had been without Aícanaro when the sword had slipped from his hands at the Morannon, how it had placed itself in Elladan's path as if it knew it needed to be in another's hands to strike the blow against Elrohir and Angmar, for Elrohir could not have done it himself.

Legolas' face was like a small child's at Yule once he had accepted the gift. And then he laid it aside with his knives and pressed himself against Elrohir. 'Ravéyön,' he breathed, touching Elrohir's face, his ear, his mouth, his hand, rested his own hand on Elrohir's hip and leaned in for a kiss but Elrohir pulled back very slightly.

'Please, will you not call me that. It reminds me how beguiled I was, how bespelled by Angmar. How he used me…'

Legolas looked hurt for a moment, kept his eyes on Elrohir's face and then dropped his gaze. He pulled back too. 'Of course,' he said and shook his head at himself. 'I am a fool, thoughtless. Forgive me. I should have known.'

'No! No.' Elrohir stroked a finger along Legolas' jaw and drew his face, his mouth towards him. 'Do not think that. Never think that. I love you.' And he kissed Legolas.

It seemed those words unlocked something in Legolas and his arms clasped Elrohir in a firm embrace, pulled him close, closer as if he wanted to pull him into Legolas' own skin. He kissed him back deeply, and it deepened into a familiar, devouring hunger. Their teeth clashed and lips crushed each other. hands groped and pawed. Legolas shoved Elrohir back onto his bed and climbed onto the bed himself, dragging off his boots, tugging his velvet tabard carelessly over his head and dropping it onto the floor. He dragged the silk shirt loose from his breeches with one hand and fumbled at the ties of his breeches with the other.

Elrohir simply leaned back on his elbows and watched appreciatively as Legolas threw away his finery and sat back on his heels, straddling Elrohir and stark naked. Elrohir though he had never seen anything more desirable, more beautiful, more welcome.

'And you have far too many clothes on,' Legolas pointed out reasonably and dragged Elrohir's tunic over his head and pulled the silk shirt from the waistband of his breeches while Elrohir toed off his boots and kicked them away.

Legolas stopped, his hands flat on Elrohir's chest, and gazed at him, he seemed to drink in the very sight of him, appreciative, smiling. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to his mouth and Elrohir combed his fingers through Legolas' hair.

Suddenly he felt Legolas' whole body freeze and tense. Elrohir stilled his hand and looked up at him for Legolas had bolted upright.

'What is it?' Elrohir whispered.

Legolas stared down at him, his green eyes wide with horror. He sat frozen for a moment and then at last, he drew back until he was sitting back on his heels and looked away, drawing a hand over his eyes. 'I am sorry… I thought…for a minute I thought…'

Elrohir sat up, concerned, and grasped Legolas' hand. 'What? Did you think of the Ghoul? Did something I say…' He swallowed. 'Or do? Did I make you think…?' He had already wondered if more had happened in that cell that he had seen for himself. He had already wondered if Bearos had taken more than blood, had inflicted some other heinous crime upon his beloved. It seemed he might be right.

'Legolas?' Elrohir could not bear to think what might have happened. Bloody thighs, sobbing, hands grasping. A hulking shape shoving in and out, grunting…the stink of blood and semen.

He wanted to be sick.

Had the same happened to Legolas as had happened to his poor mother?

Legolas pushed himself to his feet and swung away to stand by the window.

Outside the night had darkened and Gandalf's fireworks were still exploding slowly one by one like huge blossoms of fire. Legolas stood by the window looking out. He was silent.

Elrohir rose to his feet, pulling the sheet about himself in case his own excited state of arousal frightened Legolas. He stood beside him, carefully. Not one hand, not one part of him brushed Legolas. 'Did he…touch you?'

A ragged laugh tore itself from Legolas' throat. 'Touch me? Oh yes. He ripped into me to get my blood. His claws raked over my skin, he traced the yára-carmë, smeared my own blood over me. So yes. He touched me.' His voice was higher than usual and overwrought. 'Once I escaped. He chased me, hunted me. When he caught me, he dragged me back by my hair.'

Elrohir knew exactly what Legolas referred to for Bearos had shown him the very same moment when the Ghoul had been leading Elrohir into the crypt with the promise of showing him where Legolas was. Bearos had enjoyed Elrohir's horror.

….He had seen Bearos pounding through the darkness, clambering over sarcophagi and knew he was in the crypt. He had been able to feel how Bearos had smelled, sniffed and tracked someone in the Dark, how he had felt, saw, the slightest shift in the darkness.

There. Crouching by a tomb. Silent.

A figure. Hunched. Hiding. A glimmer.

Elrohir had seen, felt, experienced everything as Bearos had. He had heard the Elf's heart hammering in his chest. Pumping blood. Pulse racing. Bearos had laughed maniacally at the Elf's struggles, the physical strength of the Elf pinned beneath him. Bearos had been so strong!

'Time to feed,' he had whispered as he dragged his victim by his hair. The Elf had fought and kicked, but Bearos had smashed his fists into him, bending one of his arms up behind him almost to cracking. Even still, the Elf had struggled and kicked and bit. And then Bearos slammed his face into the wall so he was completely stunned, making it easier...

Elrohir had known it was Legolas but he could do nothing. It had happened. It was a moment past.

Now, looking at his beloved Legolas, head bowed and face hidden by his long hair, Elrohir thought his own heart might break for the pity of it. He reached out very, very tenderly, very gently and stroked his hand over Legolas' smooth head, carded his fingers through the long pale gold hair. In the candlelight, the crimson gem in his own ring flashed for a moment and he blinked. It looked different. Old gold. Worn thin. A deep red jewel glittered like a reptile's eye, cold, hard, alien…It shimmered in his vision. A dull memory. But the moment was gone and he shook his head.

'We don't have to do anything,' he said softly, concerned. 'You need time and we have all the time in the world.' He moved to stand in front of Legolas and lifted Legolas' chin so the long green eyes turned towards him. Elrohir smiled gently. 'I want to be with you forever. I love you.'

Legolas smiled but it was a tight little smile as if he was trying not to pull away and Elrohir let his hand drop back to his side. Stifling a sigh, he turned towards the window so they both looked out onto the gardens.

Below them, the wedding feast was still going on. Amongst the brightly coloured guests, Elrohir picked out Erestor, and then Tindómion who was easy to spot with his bronze hair. He glanced at Legolas to say something but saw that Legolas too followed Tindómion with his eyes and the words vanished in his mouth.

Elrohir had never forgotten seeing Legolas half naked in Tindómion's rooms the night he had returned from Phellanthir with Elladan wounded by the morgul blade. He had not forgotten that Tindómion had turned back to Elrohir in his distress and that Legolas had been so easily dismissed. But the next morning, as Tindómion had dressed for battle, his skin showed the marks of passion. Though he had never spoken of who it was he had shared his bed, Elrohir knew now it had been Legolas. A furious jealousy coiled in his breast and hissed. Dark lust and rage rose its head in the dark and eyes glittered hard, like the crimson gemstone on the ring upon his finger.

0o0o

Cûlanthûl: Sharp-edged Breath, or Breath of Sudden End


	46. Chapter 46 Galadriel

Note: Tolkien does not specify the time that Galadriel finds out that the ban upon the Noldor is lifted and she can return. In this story, that has not yet happened.

Summary: Legolas has been released from the cell and Bearos killed. Arwen and Aragorn are wed and the Fellowship reunited. Elrohir has also told Elrond about Legolas. But Legolas is struggling with the aftermath of his capture and Elrohir is experiencing strange thoughts and feelings.

Meanwhile, Galadriel has won Elrond over to her cause and together they seek a way to turn back Time itself, for Galadriel it is to spare Celebrían her suffering and for Elrond it is to find a way to free Maedhros from his imprisonment in the Mirror at Phellanthir. They have agreed to join forces.

Thanks to my very fabulous beta, Anarithilien. She is ALWAYS right!

Thanks also to everyone who comments, gives kudos, favorites and follows this story. I am sorry I have not updated in a month- I really wasn't quite sure what was going to happen after this next chapter but I am on a rollnow- next chapter already written and will be out very soon.

Happy New Year everyone!

 **Chapter 46: Galadriel**

Legolas had gone.

Elrohir had told him to go and join the Fellowship for a while, to be amongst those who knew him best and with whom he felt safe. It hurt Elrohir that Legolas had been so grateful and left so quickly. And though he said he would return, both knew that he would not do soon this evening.

'I need a little time,' Legolas had said apologetically, his eyes showing his fear.

Elrohir was hurt. His love was still tender and new, like the skin over a wound newly healing and easily opened again. He had told Legolas he wanted to be with him forever, that he loved him. But Legolas had not replied that he felt the same. Indeed, he had almost pulled away and turned his gaze into the garden, finding Tindómion amongst the reveling guests.

Elrohir sat on the edge of the bed where he had lain with Legolas and rubbed his hands over his face; this is all going wrong, he thought. He had believed that once Legolas had been released and back with him, that they would continue their exploration of each other, their bodies, their minds, opinions, dreams, their spirits. But now it was all changed, damaged. Legolas didn't love him. He couldn't.

 _He cannot love one like you._

Elrohir put his head in his hands.

 _Corrupted as you are by your secret desires. You are a predator._

The image pressed against his eyes of Legolas bound and stretched, arms pulled tight above his head, long hair sweeping down his back and the torchlight flickering over his skin.

He was beautiful, desirable. Unbearably so. Elrohir wanted to take him. He wanted to ….

No. No, that is not who I am, he told himself in despair. That was Angmar. Legolas showed me this, he made me see that I did not rape my mother, I did not long for Legolas' degradation.

Elrohir shoved himself to his feet and paced the room, running his fingers over his hair, restless. What is wrong with me? he asked himself. He thought he had conquered this. This is not me, he told himself miserably. This is Angmar still.

 _It is always in you,_ said a voice. It showed him Legolas again, and then it showed him another he had subdued; Haldir, blood on his lip where Elrohir had slapped him for his impertinence, the sensual mocking eyes fixed upon him in desire. You have always wanted this.

Not with Legolas. I want to be pure. I want to love him.

The dark lust crouched in the dark with the Ring. Khamûl could bide his time. Too much too soon would destroy the fragile and precious bond Khamûl was forging with Elrohir, a bond that would tie the Elf's soul to the Ring and drag him into the world of the Nazgûl. No Angmar though, no Brethren. Just Khamûl. For Khamûl wanted to rule through Elrohir, and he did not want to share power with anyone. If Khamûl pushed too hard, too soon, Elrohir might realise what was happening.

It is for the best that I have a little time apart from Legolas, Elrohir tried to tell himself. Both of them were still too raw, too new to all this. But Elrohir's heart felt like nothing he had ever felt before; like he had been pierced by a blade. He could hardly bear it. He paused at the window and looked down across the lawns and gardens below to where the wedding guests were watching the fireworks, or dancing to the merry tune of pipes and flutes. He saw that Legolas had walked across the lawn and was headed towards the edge of the festival, away from others.

He seemed more uncertain, slightly less graceful than before. A little bit broken. It hurt Elrohir to see him like this. Legolas slowed a little and lifted his face to the night sky, to the stars, and breathed. His arms were slack at his sides and he turned once as if he were breathing the air, the freedom… Did he just need to be outside, in the open air, under the stars? Or was it Elrohir from whom he needed to escape?

The gardens were busy, full of lords and ladies, music and the glitter of jewels and laughter. Turning slightly, as if he felt Elrohir's eyes upon him, Legolas looked upwards then, sought Elrohir with his gaze, hesitant at first and then smiling. Relieved, Elrohir lifted his hand, knowing that Legolas would see him.

Someone moved into his gaze, touching Legolas on the arm. Long hair glinted in the torchlight, and the lazy, sensual mouth smiled slowly at Legolas, who glanced anxiously upwards at the window. Elrohir saw who it was and pulled back slightly; Haldir. He clearly knew Legolas.

Elrohir felt his breath coming hard and fast, tension coiled in his belly like snakes.

Oh, that image that pressed itself against his eyes, that curled around his lust and desire, that swelled him, unbearably aroused him…Legolas stretched, his long, lithe body stretched in chains and the wild colour that swirled about his muscular, athletic body…Had he given himself to Haldir?

Or had Haldir taken it? Had Haldir seduced him, like he had Elrohir?

It hurt. Pain in his chest and belly so intense he could not think. Pain in his cock for it swelled with unbearable lust.

He sank onto the edge of the bed and stared down at his hands, barely able to see the glint of gold on his finger.

He wanted to kill Haldir.

0o0o

In the sky, fireworks exploded into showers of golden sparks and fell in silver, crimson and emerald rain upon the Pelennor Fields.

'Mithrandir has surpassed himself this time,' said a Man to her right. Galadriel did not reply but inclined her head as if in agreement and bestowed upon him an enigmatic smile. Indeed she had never expected Mithrandir's conjuring to be so entertaining and the coloured fire showering the city was indeed lovely in its own way. But her heart weighed in her breast, and her womb clenched with loss. Her daughter first, and now Arwen. She felt Vilya reach for Nenya as Elrond's despair overwhelmed him. But neither she nor her bearer could give comfort when there was none.

Unfair! Galadriel's heart cried. To give her this Choice! A cruel and unkindly act of the Valar.

But when she turned and found Arwen, her granddaughter was laughing, her eyes sparkled and she gazed at Aragorn. How she blazed with love, adoration and Galadriel could not help but look at her own forester and remember when first she put her hand in his, how SHE had felt, how adored.

No longer.

He was like stone to her. Or perhaps glass, for his veneer of calm was brittle, fragile, could shatter under too much pressure. But she might yet change that. Celeborn would forgive everything, she thought, when she had returned their daughter. And if he did not, she no longer cared as she used to.

Celeborn had abandoned her as soon as the wedding had been completed and she saw how his eyes avoided her. He moved between groups of Elves and Men, easily, talking of the forests, of the seasons, the cycles of planting and harvest, the breeding of horses. He was always at ease, put others at their ease too. Here he was talking with Glorfindel and Saeldir, captains of Imladris. Now he turned to greet Imrahil and his sons.

It had been decreed, it seemed, by the Valar that this was the Golden Age of Men. But she was not quite ready to give up all and fade graciously, as she was supposed to. She cursed every breath the Valar took and decided she would not go quietly. She would not fade into the forests. And she thought she was not alone in her determination.

But for now, she drifted gracefully along the gravel path between the lawns that were lit with blazing torches. She kept her gaze wide, greeting those she passed with an enigmatic smile, a slight tilt of her golden head. She did not pause or converse, but stayed aloof. She needed to be the great Queen right now if she was to build her power, to impress upon them her grace, her beauty, her wisdom, if they were to accept her rule later, when she had established the new Kingdom. Her realm. She had a purpose, a destination.

The elven lords were aware of her too, as if they sensed things might change, that the power of the Noldor was once more slowly asserting itself. She wondered how steadfast were their hearts for she would need them soon, strong and battle-hardened, at her back. Tolognor, survivor of Nargothrond, glanced towards her as if he sensed her summoning, and Gwestion from Beleriand watched her progress. Both had come with her over the Ice. How few remained of those first ones, she thought bitterly as she walked on through the oblivious lords of Gondor. How great were their losses?

There were others from Imladris whom she knew of course, Saeldir and Erestor, inevitably, Tindómion Maglorion, his red surcoat emblazoned shamelessly with the sign of his House. But then Erestor wore the Star too and Elrond's sigil was as close to Feänor's as it could be, and he was not even blood. She suppressed her irritation for it was more important to keep Elrond on her side right now.

She passed Glorfindel. He neither bowed nor made any other obeisance. That irritated her, the lack of respect, of deference. But he too harboured secrets and she did not truly trust him; of all those lost, only Glorfindel, and Finrod had been reborn, so it was said. Why did they send Glorfindel, and not send Finrod? she thought fiercely. After all, Finrod had more reason to fight Sauron than Glorfindel.

Below, in the city streets, there was cheering and carousing as the Men of the city celebrated their King's wedding. In the garden, Erestor lifted his goblet to Glorfindel and Elladan walked between them, drawn into a conversation. She set herself apart, for she wanted no part in any conversation right now; she had work to do.

The fragrance of summer jasmine mingled with the heavy scent of the roses and she ignored the other guests, shut them out and arranged herself, making sure that her samite dress was draped around her alluringly, that her hair streamed down her back and she turned her head slightly so she looked back over her shoulder towards the entrance of the garden; it was how she wanted Mithrandir to see her, half turning, hair streaming down her back, white gown flattened over her breasts and belly and thighs.

Nenya thrilled and blazed into life. Though it was hidden from the view of others. She could not help the gasp that escaped her lips and saw that Elrond too, half-turned towards her. Narya was here. Vilya and Nenya greeted their sister like she had been long lost and the blaze of Power that leapt from one to the other was thrilling, like lightning.

Ólorin.

…. they were calling each other, she thought. Calling her too. The weight of their expectation though did not crush, but lifted Galadriel. Their desire was hers also. Vilya reached out to her in tendrils of Song, curling through the roses and winding about Nenya, pulling her close. Inexorable. They sang together, weaving about each other in mesmeric circles and spirals, anticipating Narya, waiting for her Power to join theirs.

Ecstatic, Galadriel was lifted into the Other Place where the Rings existed; before her own Mirror had opened, she had never realised just how... immense was the Universe. She could see the Sun and Moon huge overhead though in the small world of Men, they did not appear like this. Light streamed around her, Nenya, her particles blue and heavy, like water, and Vilya - all colours mingling and blending. Lighter, faster than Nenya.

She felt the lightning-prickle of energy that was Mithrandir approach and turned her head towards him.

He never had fooled her.

Even the first time they had met all those years ago, she had seen how he walked cloaked in flesh and blood and bone, but his Presence shimmered beneath the skin, almost shone from within. She had not been not fooled and though he had bowed and took her hand like the old Man he pretended to be and his bones clicked and the skin was wrinkled, his grip had been firm and electric. She had recognised him then, from so long ago it felt like a dream.

Ólorin.

It had been such a shock to see someone from Home. And it awoke in her such a longing that she could barely contain her grief. The long, long years of loneliness. The Exile that it had become. She yearned to go home and then when Celebrían had sailed, she had felt so betrayed that she almost raised Nenya to bring a storm upon that ship to drive it back to shore. Even now, though she had warned Legolas of the danger of hearing the gulls on the shore, nothing had prepared her for the terrible yearning awoken in her by the salt sea drifting in on the wind from the West.

Only Ólorin had understood. A little.

He had pitied her. Though she railed against his pity and swore and cursed the Valar to him for taking her daughter, forbidding Galadriel sight of her ever again, he had merely taken her in his arms in his compassion and let her cling to him and weep.

No one else had ever seen that weakness, vulnerability. Not even Celeborn. Not after the angry bitter words they had flung at each other after Celebrían was taken. Not after the wreck that was their daughter had been found and returned by her sons.

Mithrandir was coming to her now. He would do anything she asked.

She turned slowly towards him, a warm smile greeting him and, as she knew he would, he blazed with light though none but she perceived it. The bounds between flesh and spirit were thin now, Ólorin shining through more and more now that his task was complete. Almost. He believed that the soiling of Arda by Sauron, and Morgoth before him, might begin to heal now. And his part in the reparation was almost complete.

'Old friend,' was all she said and he came to her side. She widened her eyes to reflect his actions, mirror him. She echoed his smile, made it triumphant and clear, no hidden motive, nothing shadowed. He came to her as a hawk flies to its master, eyes wide and joyful.

'Is your work here now done?' she asked. 'When you go into the West will you think of us, Exiles far from home?' she murmured. She let Narya wind herself about Nenya, the two Rings intertwined, curled and coiled about each other, blue and red mingling like the Light itself. 'Will you remember Artanis?' her voice heavy with the grief of imminent parting. 'You will leave these shores and return home?' Home. Home.

And perhaps Ólorin felt it too for he placed his hand upon her arm and Narya reached out to her, to Nenya as if they too could not bear to be parted.

When he turned his blue eyes towards her, she did not know if it was Mithrandir or Ólorin who looked upon her with such tenderness. She did not know if it was love or desire or both but she felt it like a jolt of power.

'I will remember,' he said as if it pained him beyond what he could bear. 'Ever have you sheltered and succoured me. Tell me what I might do to ease you? Tell me how I can help?'

Ah. So easy. Too easy perhaps? She must be subtle and clever, lead him gently down this path so he would not know until it was too late.

'I do not know.' She bowed her head, knowing how the firelight from torch and candle caressed her golden hair, how it lit her. Her white samite gown flowed closely around her, against her body, her breasts and belly and thighs. 'I long to see my child.' She raised her eyes to him and searched his face as if looking for something. And there it was. Always Mithrandir's strength and downfall. Compassion. Empathy.

'I wish I could help somehow.'

Looking out over the rooftops and towers of the city, Galadriel sighed heavily. 'If I could just see her once more, know she is happy and safe and healed, that would be enough.' Not true! Not true! How her womb clenched at the very thought of her sweet girl.

Ólorin dropped his gaze and she knew he would succumb. Softly. Softly. There was always her own mirror, she let Nenya insinuate the idea in his old head.

'Can you not see her in your mirror?' he asked quietly as she had wanted him to.

'I wish that I could. But it does not show the Present. It torments me with what is past. Over and over. And the future- what may and may not come to pass.' She shook her head. 'It shows me strange visions. Maedhros. He is in a dark land surrounded by foes and they hunt him endlessly. I do not know what it means.'

And that was not true either for Elrond had told her all that had passed in Phellanthir. Yet she was still determined to carry out her plan, though she may have to rid the Mirror in Phellanthir should her cousin, Maedhros understand her purpose and seek to oppose her. She hoped instead that she could use him to defend the Mirror against what she knew would come, who would come when she opened the Mirror, pushed back the threads of Time. It is not the Dagor Dagoreth, she told herself, for she did not believe in that either.

'Ah, that is a cruel fate indeed,' sighed Ólorin softly. She took comfort in his compassion.

Mithrandir was very still, his eyes gazed into the distance towards the far lands of Mordor, now emptied of their armies, empty of the Power that galvanized it. Sauron was gone.

'Mairon. Your heart-brother,' she said softly. 'The other half of your spirit before his fall from Grace.' She wondered what he felt and gently rested her hand upon his arm as he had done to her. 'We are both bereft,' she said softly. 'Would that we could open the way and draw back the Threads of Time, repair the harm, restore our loved ones. Would that we had the knowledge to change the Past so our beloved ones did not fall into evil and we, knowing what we do now, could choose for them differently… choose to heal … to prevent them from harm….' Her voice was a seductive murmur now, as if she were merely thinking aloud, but she felt him so very still, listening intently. Considering. Wondering.

….If she was right.

….If they could.

'If there _is_ a way, Ólorin… And have we found it?'

0o0o


	47. Chapter 47 Good Advice

Note: Thank you for all the thoughtful and thought-provoking comments and reviews. They always help me think. Re Galadriel and her 'pardon': as I said at the start of the last chapter, I don't think Tolkien makes it clear exactly when Galadriel knows she has been pardoned by the Valar (but someone tell me if I'm wrong)- and I don't think she is the sort of person to beg or be penitent on her return. I think she will expect to be invited, and return with her head held high. At this point in the story, she is still an Exile and so believes she will never see Celebrían again. And Gandalf, if you remember, told Frodo he would go and see Saruman about the One Ring and get his advice! So his judgment is a bit flawed anyway.

Thanks to my fab beta as always, Anarithilien.

Thanks to all those leaving kudos, it is so encouraging when it's difficult to find the time or inspiration.

And to reviewers especially, Golden, chasingbluefish, Paradis artificiel, LayneWolf, twinjay, Pame, earthdragon, Freddie, Raider-K, Nina (lovely to hear from you) Nelya, Naledi, Narya, Spiced Wine, Gabriel. Thank you all - you make it worth posting.

 **Chapter 47: Good Advice**

The wedding itself had been straightforward and mercifully swift. A matter of exchanging pledges to love, to be a helpmate and to respect, honour, blah blah blah, thought Erestor, snagging a delicate glass of wine and guzzling it down. He smacked his lips and leered at a Gondorian matron suggestively. He flourished his capacious velvet sleeve at her, rather pleased with the effect. The new coats he had had made were even better than the grey-blue velvet that he had got from the Blue Mountains, for that had been ruined by Bearos. Selfish bastard, he thought. But the healing scars on his cheek that he had from Bearos gave him a dangerous air, he thought pleased. And this luscious gold velvet sparkled with silver thread and he looked glorious, he knew. Like Fingon. Not like Fingon, he amended drunkenly. Maybe Finrod. He grinned lasciviously. Ah, Finrod was glorious too.

Wrong hair for a Noldo, he thought with a grin. But he wasn't the only one.

He glanced around the Merethrond, the Great Hall of the King. It was separate from the Palace and rather a good banqueting hall, he thought, pleasantly surprised by its opulence. Even in the time of War Denethor had managed to maintain its splendour. It was suitably grand, its floor polished like glass, the walls hung with rich and rather beautiful tapestries which made it feel warm and welcoming. Great bowls of fire hung from the rafters in the manner of the First Age, and supplemented the huge candelabra with hundreds of wax candles that gave a soft golden light. Erestor turned, admiring the organization that had gone into this feast, recognizing Arwen's hand in the décor, the arrangement of candles, flowers and food. And the copious amounts of alcohol of course. There were a number of Rohirrim draped over one another in various corners and Gimli was carousing loudly with them. The Hobbits too were dancing and singing with Tindómion who was trying to avoid having ale sloshed over him. A small fat steward smiled at Erestor with such delight and so widely it almost seemed to split his round face. Bowing low, Erestor smiled back and the pair of them laughed with inexplicable joy before each moved on to whatever they were each doing.

Erestor was getting drunk. Or drunker, he resolved.

And trying not to look for Elladan.

He almost blundered into a small, delicate table and caught a fine vase before it toppled, righting it carefully.

'This will not do,' he muttered to himself. The crowd suddenly parted momentarily and he caught sight of Elladan briefly. Elladan's radiant eyes were fastened on something, someone, beyond Erestor's view. As if he sensed Erestor, Elladan turned his head towards his old friend and mentor. At first Erestor's heart leapt because he thought himself the cause of Elladan's breathless excitement, but then a small group of lords moved and Erestor saw that it was Imrahil who stood with Elladan and Elladan had already turned back and gazed at the Prince of Dol Amroth, rapt.

'You're an old fool,' Erestor scolded himself. For he had missed his chance long ago. Instead Erestor sought Glorfindel in the crowd. He needed someone to drum some sense into him. He went out through the high, elaborately carved doors that stood open onto gardens and lawns, and into the open air, passing Haldir of Lorien. The Marchwarden's face was contemplative, secret and he did not see Erestor.

It was very late now and the Moon rode low in the sky, already sinking. The festival seemed to have withdrawn to the Merethrond and left the gardens a little emptier but for small groups who were looking for more quiet entertainment, or couples who found benches or nooks on the gardens to kiss. And more.

Erestor saw that Legolas Thranduillion was standing on the edge of the Palace gardens, near the ramparts, looking out at the magnificent views over the Pelennor Fields. The sky was clear and full of stars and the cool evening breeze lifted Legolas' hair. But though his face looked calm and serene, Erestor could see that his hands were clenched on the stone wall as if he feared falling. One could hardly blame him. His recent incarceration must have tried his mettle and he had barely had time to recover from War, Erestor thought with sympathy. He wondered where Elrohir was: the last time Erestor had seen him, he had been following Legolas into the Palace, obviously for a tryst. But now Elrohir was nowhere to be seen and Legolas stood alone.

Erestor squinted down his nose at the half empty glass in his hand and thought that there would be no easy path for these two lovers.

Perhaps there were no easy paths for anyone, he thought.

Moonlight shone on the white stone and there was a fragrance of jasmine somewhere. Around him, the wedding guests were looser, drunk some of them. There were still one or two jesters and tumblers strolling about the lawns to entertain the guests, and one Man was swallowing fire and then breathing it out like a small dragon. Two Elves from Lothlorien were trying to work out how he did it.

Remembering he had committed himself to getting completely drunk and thinking Legolas would be good company, Erestor grabbed two cups of wine from one of the trestle tables set up on the lawns for the purpose of holding wine and ale, and wandered towards Legolas. He smiled kindly. 'How are you, Legolas?' he asked and thrust a cup towards the Woodelf. 'It is good to see you recovered and walking. Are you riding yet?'

Legolas gave him a half-hearted smile and Erestor cursed himself for his clumsiness. 'Ah, Forgive me. I did not wish to open the wound. I am just glad to see you,' he said apologetically.

Legolas glanced at Erestor and opened his lips as if about to speak and then thought better of it. But he looked unhappy and Erestor was annoyed with himself.

Then Legolas shook himself. 'Forgive me, my lord Erestor.'

'Erestor, please,' he murmured.

Legolas shrugged a shoulder. 'In answer to your question, I am not yet riding. Nor am I training or allowed to draw a bow.' His voice held a little resentment and Erestor suppressed a smile for he understood the frustration of recovering all too well. Legolas must have seen it for he sighed and gave a slight smile himself. Then he said, 'I am sorry. I am a little bored. It is hard to find yourself with so little occupation.' He sighed. 'I do not mean to be churlish. You risked yourself to get me out of that dungeon. I cannot tell you how grateful I am. If there is anything I can do to repay you, you have but to ask.' But he sounded flat, dutiful and lacked the animation Erestor remembered in him. That first morning he had met Legolas in Imladris, Erestor had been beguiled by his sweetness, his naivety that was almost an innocence- but not quite. In Legolas' company, Erestor had heard the Song amplified in a way that Erestor had heard only once before, in the company of Finrod, that Master of the Song.

But this Legolas was a shade of himself.

Erestor waved away the apology and thanks. 'You owe me nothing. I just want to see you well now,' he said truthfully. 'That will be payment enough.' He watched Legolas from the corner of his eye and guzzled at the wine glass. 'Such an experience as you have had can affect even the hardiest of warriors. My lord, Maedhros, was haunted by his captivity. Haunted by the guilt, haunted by the wicked lies of Sauron. Haunted by the blood.' He sighed into his glass. 'It was very hard on him. Took him ages to recover, but slowly, he did. Fingon helped.'

But rather than relieving Legolas, his shoulders slumped and he seemed under a great weight. A deep sigh broke from him.

Erestor glanced at him. He did not speak, having learned the artfulness and use of patience long ago in Himring. Silence was more effective than words sometimes.

Legolas looked out over the city, little lights dotted all over the city below as the people celebrated the marriage of their new king, and a new age of peace and prosperity. It seemed unfair to Erestor, that one who had so much to do with bringing that about, as Legolas had, should not share in it at least a little. He patted Legolas kindly on the arm; Erestor had observed Gimli do this and it always seemed to calm Legolas or reassure him. Perhaps that would work now?

Indeed, Legolas glanced at Erestor briefly and then back at the expansive sky.

'But the truth,' he said at last, 'is that I am not Lord Maedhros. I am not a great hero or great lord of the First Age. I am just an archer from the Woodland Realm who stupidly got caught and had to be rescued from the Nazgûl like some swooning maiden.' He looked down at the goblet in his hands. 'No one else would have been so easily caught. I am a fool. Oh, I know there were others, victims of the Ghoul who were not so fortunate and did not escape, so I am grateful.' He said this as if he was telling himself and then looked up at Erestor again. 'I am. I really am.' He chewed his lip and looked anxious. But then looked away again.

Erestor sighed and threw a companionable arm around Legolas' shoulder and clinked his glass against Legolas'.

'Do you really think that no one else would have been caught?' he asked. 'I do not believe that. Maedhros knew he was going into a trap laid by Morgoth and did it anyway, just in case it was not. Finrod knew he was going to his doom when he helped that bastard, Beren, but he still went,' he said kindly. 'History is littered with brave fools.' He rubbed his eyes. 'Fingon would have done exactly as you. He was always a bit reckless to be honest. Loved the chase.' Erestor slurped his wine noisily. He was definitely drunk. 'It's what we all loved about him really.' He did not see the astounded look of admiration and awe on Legolas' face for Erestor's face was turned and he stared out over the admittedly spectacular view of the lands of Gondor that stretched away to the Anduin. 'Fingon was so exciting to be around. You never knew what might happen. It was no wonder my lord Maedhros…' He stopped. Too far in his cups now, he reprimanded himself. That was not his story to tell and he had never, ever betrayed them. Wouldn't start now. 'It's probably one of the things we all love and admire about you.'

Was that a blush on Legolas' cheeks? Erestor smiled to himself. For all his confidence and casual sexuality, Legolas was still young by elven standards, still impressionable and the comparison had pleased him. But Erestor had meant it too.

They drank a little more together and Erestor asked about the lie of the land which Legolas answered with ease; he seemed to know exactly where everything was.

'You can't see it now but there is a partially ruined wall called the Rammas Echor,' said Legolas.

'I know it, murmured Erestor, remembering. 'It used to encircle the Pelennor Fields.'

'Yes.' Legolas glanced at Erestor. 'There is very little of it left now. That is where the Mumâks attacked,' he said, waving a hand casually in the general direction of the East. 'And over there is Pelargir and beyond that, Umbar.'

'Hm.' Erestor did not want to think about Pelargir. The Sea was perilous to all of them and he had heard that in Legolas the Longing had stirred. The last thing Erestor wanted was to bring that up.

Suddenly Legolas turned to Erestor, leaning against the stone balustrade that ran around the garden and separated it from the Place of the Fountain, which Erestor thought was a silly and unimaginative name.

'Did he ever wear the Dragonhelm from Azarghâl?'

Erestor looked at Legolas in surprise at the suddenness and unexpectedness of the question, and laughed. 'Fingon? Yes.' He laughed, remembering. 'It was far too big for him but he wore it with padding, and proudly, for it was a gift from Maedhros who was always overwhelmed by Fingon. Fingon left him breathless.' Erestor paused and sighed. He drank deeply in memory, loving them both. Missing them painfully. All of them. Ah, he needed to find Glorfindel if he was not going to become maudlin. Or Tindómion.

'That is how Elrohir makes me feel.'

It was so quietly said that Erestor almost did not hear Legolas.

It affected Erestor more than he expected. His chest felt tight with affection for them both. 'Then I am happy for you both,' he said softly, 'For Elrohir worships you. Once he told us, that is Glorfindel and me, that you two were together and we were happy for him, he could speak of nothing else.' He smiled. 'Do you know that according to Elrohir, the sun makes your hair like wintergrass? And that your eyes are green like the forest and your mouth is generous like the sun! Apparently you are the greatest archer ever to have graced Middle Earth and I am sure that Beleg Longbow himself is not a patch on you.' He laughed fondly. 'Elrohir has never been in love before. It is quite a novelty.' He paused and drank. Then he said, 'It is quite wonderful.'

Legolas said nothing but Erestor saw that he smiled at the silliness of Elrohir's boasting.

Erestor turned to him with a serious and intent expression. 'It is wonderful, and frightening too, Legolas. He needs kindness. Tenderness, for he has none for himself. He will not believe that he is worthy of you.'

Legolas nodded slowly and Erestor thought that perhaps Legolas knew Elrohir better than he had believed. He said, 'I think you know that he will need your patience and gentleness, Legolas, for you are a kindly soul. Mithrandir said so.'

'Did he?'

'He did. It was one of the first things he told us about you, when he wanted you for the Fellowship.'

Legolas' green eyes were lit with starlight and he looked for a moment like one of the Unbegotten. 'I would cut my own throat before I harmed one hair on Elrohir's head.' He held Erestor's gaze steadily for a moment, but then he dipped his gaze and tugged at the embroidered sleeve of his turquoise tunic. 'But … there are things I need to tell him. And he does not want to hear them.'

Erestor made a gentle encouraging noise. Legolas swallowed and stole another look at Erestor.

Then hesitantly he began to speak. 'I have never been in love before like this…but I have loved…Often.' He glanced anxiously at Erestor as if fearing that he would be judged. But Erestor was hardly one to judge, and he neither spoke nor looked at Legolas, just maintained his steady gaze at the great expanse of starry skies. Legolas glanced back briefly over his shoulder towards the merry crowds where the noise was coming from, the music and laughing and dancing. 'He will not let me speak of it.' He paused and his eyes rested anxiously upon Erestor.

Erestor pondered. 'Perhaps he is afraid of what you might tell him. Does he know you have had other lovers?'

'Yes.' Legolas spoke with conviction and such certainty that Erestor wondered how Elrohir knew, and what had happened.

'If Elrohir says he loves you, you have his complete devotion. He will do anything you ask, do anything to protect you. He would cross the Helcaraxë for you.' Erestor sighed. 'If you are sure that he knows you have had lovers before him, for it is not unusual and he is no shy maiden himself, why do you need to say more? Will it help that he knows?'

Legolas was nodding thoughtfully. 'What if he knows some of them?'

Erestor raised his eyebrows, amused. 'Some of them? Well you have only been this side of the Mountains since Spring so you must have been busy if Elrohir knows 'some' but not all!'

He noticed Legolas' ears had flushed a little and regretted his amusement. 'Never mind me,' he said patting his arm kindly once again. Erestor knew of Berensul of course, and there was the suspicion that Legolas may have been with Tindómion. That would sting Elrohir a little maybe, thought Erestor, but not as much as Legolas might think for Elrohir knew that Tindómion's heart was given. He smiled and said, 'What is important now is that you show Elrohir that you love him; that you and he learn to trust each other.'

At that, Legolas dropped his head and sighed so heavily that it wrenched Erestor's kindly heart.

Legolas looked down at his hands and shook his head very slightly as if in denial. 'I trust him with all my heart, Erestor. He risked everything to find me,' he said quietly. 'He cut me down, fought off the Nazgûl.' He licked his lips anxiously. 'I would die for him.'

His earnestness touched Erestor. 'Trust him,' he said softly. 'But trust yourself as well. You are a warrior of the Wood. You have proved yourself over and over. Do you love him? Really love him?'

'He is more than life itself.'

More than life itself.

Erestor drank the whole goblet down then, remembering: they had been standing on the frost-cracked stone of Himring. The bitter wind swept down from Thanogodhrim and tangled its cold fingers in Maedhros' long red hair but he seemed not to feel it, swathed in silver wolf fur and his grey eyes like steel had not softened. He is more than life itself. It had been Fingon of whom Maedhros had spoken. The words burned themselves into the stone, the ice.

Fingon, beaten and stamped into a bloody pulp in the mud.

And now here they were spoken again. A tremor of foreboding settled in his belly.

He shook himself out of the reverie. These were such different times. 'Legolas, this is a time of Peace. And you are an Elf! Immortal.' His words were for himself as much as Legolas, and he realised the irony of the advice to trust another he was giving Legolas but would not take himself. But I am a wicked old kinslayer, he reminded himself, too tough a meat for one as tender as Elladan. 'You have plenty of time to learn, to trust, to enjoy finding out about each other. Don't rush.'

He gave Legolas a quick glance, saw how he had brightened. 'Legolas. I have to say this but forgive me if I am well off the mark here. You said you were no hero, but that is exactly how Elrohir sees you. In his eyes, you are a marvel. It is hard to live up to when you are frightened and feel like you are jumping at shadows. But there is no shame in that when you have endured as you have done. You can tell him and he will think no less of you. After the Dagor Bragollach, I can never hear trumpets without looking up at the sky to see if balrogs and dragons are on their way, and pissing myself.'

Legolas laughed, shocked, and glanced at Erestor with a mixture of wonder and gratitude. 'Thank you,' he said earnestly. 'I do love him. I cannot imagine life now without him.' He bowed his head but this time there was a slight smile on his face and his shoulders relaxed.

'Good,' said Erestor and took Legolas' cup from him, drained it and gave it back to him empty. 'Now. I had resolved to get very drunk but I find that there is someone else whose life I must sort out once and for all.' He patted Legolas on the arm once more for luck and then went to find Elladan.

0o0o

Erestor's advice was so obvious that Legolas felt a dimwit for not realising it. But he had been caught up in the giddiness of Love and had not cared to be patient.

But he could be. He sidestepped a juggler who had a glass goblet, a knife, a couple of balls in the air. Thalos could keep eight knives in the air, he thought, unimpressed. And he himself could keep six.

He threaded his way between the groups of guests, thinking; he could take his time with Elrohir, as Erestor said. They could just spend time together and make it uncomplicated. After all, Elrohir had tried to be so tender and so patient with him earlier, telling him they didn't have to do anything. Elrohir had been the one to acknowledge that Legolas needed time and that they had all the time in the world. He remembered how Elrohir had moved to stand in front of him and lifted his chin so he was forced to look up into those grey eyes that were always turned towards him. Elrohir had smiled so gently. A tender, loving smile that made Legolas heart thump in his chest. And then Elrohir had said, 'I want to be with you forever. I love you.'

He saw Glorfindel, standing serenely amongst a group of admiring lords and ladies who could barely stand still in their excitement. Glorfindel looked relieved when he saw Legolas and excused himself to join the Woodelf for a while.

'Have you seen Elrohir at all?' Legolas asked Glorfindel after Glorfindel had enquired after his recovery, and Legolas did not mind because it was Glorfindel.

'He was with Elrond last I saw him.'

Of course, thought Legolas. This is a family occasion. He will want time with them, he will not want me tagging along like baggage.

He drifted a little, amongst the revelers and entertainers, wondering where Gimli was, for the Dwarf had been absent for a number of days recently engaged upon some task for Gandalf of which Gimli would not speak. The Hobbits thought, hoped, it was to do with fireworks. And the displays had been worthy of such labour.

Many people greeted Legolas warmly as he passed, and there was a clear invitation to join any number of groups of guests, but he knew none of them well and he felt a little self-conscious; they must all know about his imprisonment and even though he repeated Erestor's wise words to himself endlessly, he did not feel quite ready to join in the celebration completely.

At one point he thought he had found Elrohir, talking to Imrahil. But it was Elladan, standing a little too close, leaning against him so his arm touched Imrahil's, his dark head bent close to hear what Imrahil was saying. When Legolas turned away, he caught sight of Erestor standing a little way off and his face was bereft.

For a moment, Legolas hesitated, wondering if he should go to Erestor; perhaps it was Elladan's life that Erestor had decided to sort out. But Legolas did not think that Elladan was in danger of making the same choice as Arwen, he was simply enjoying Imrahil's company, his physical presence, his undoubted allure. Legolas did not think that Elladan needed rescuing from Imrahil, but he thought perhaps Erestor did. He was about to approach Erestor when another came quickly into his line of sight: Haldir came running lightly down the steps of the Hall of Merethrond, where most of the feasting and entertainment had been held.

Quickly Legolas dipped behind a hedge and waited until Haldir passed for Haldir had already accosted Legolas earlier in the evening and the encounter had been unpleasant. His touch on Legolas' arm had been intimate, overly-intrusive. And Legolas had only just left Elrohir and was vulnerable, bewildered.

'Well met, Legolas.' Haldir had smiled, letting his gaze drift sensuously over Legolas' body. 'I was told that you are with Elrohir Elrondion, but here you are, on your own.' He had made it sound like Legolas was vulnerable and lost. 'But perhaps I have misheard.' He had brushed his fingers lightly over Legolas' hand and leaned forwards, his eyes calculating, inviting. 'I have thought of you often.'

Legolas had pulled his hand back like he had been bitten. 'I have been too busy to think of you,' he had said tersely.

'Well you are not too busy now,' Haldir said with a smooth smile.

'I will always be too busy to see you, Haldir,' hissed Legolas quietly.

Haldir had drawn back a fraction, as if surprised although Legolas did not think he was in the least, and without another word, Legolas strode away from him. He had been relieved that Haldir had not followed him.

Now Haldir looked like he was going somewhere with purpose and Legolas hoped it meant he was leaving the Citadel and returning to the Elves' camp in the woods around the foot of the Mindolluin. He did not want to see Haldir ever again.

When the Fellowship had stumbled, shocked and in grief, into Lothlorien, Haldir had shown them great kindness. He had invited Legolas to join him and shown him the Golden Wood's secrets and glories. It was a wondrous place and Legolas had indeed found his grief for Gandalf soothed. It had started innocently enough between him and Haldir, with a casual encounter that ended in sex, passionate, vigorous, enjoyable, for Haldir was a very skilled lover, and at first, Legolas had learned things that he looked forward to taking back with him to the Greenwood. But Haldir had a darker side to him, his taste had mingled pleasure and pain in ways that had at first intrigued and excited Legolas, showing him how in sex there could be both. But Haldir had gone too far and for Legolas, there started to be more pain than pleasure. There had been an occasion where it had gone too far and Haldir would not stop when Legolas wanted him to. It had shocked Legolas. He had quickly become cautious around Haldir and so took Gimli with him often. The Dwarf did not know the reason for Legolas' sudden desire for Gimli's company but Legolas was glad of the friendship they had begun on the banks of the Anduin*.

'Ah ha! Legolas! there you are!' Gimli came towards him, purposefully. He grinned at Legolas, a ruddy flush on his cheeks and his deep brown eyes warm and cheery. 'Pippin has been asking where you were.' Legolas was relieved to see Gimli and willingly went him to find Pippin.

The doors of the Merethrond were still wide open and the warm Summer air drifted in. But inside it was hot and stank of alcohol. A fug of pipeweed hung over one corner and there was loud singing and banging of tankards and cups on tables.

'There he is!' shouted Pippin rather loudly for such a small person. 'Leg'las! C'mon.' He beckoned to Legolas and stumbled a little as he did. 'Mer…Merry says….' He turned drunkenly to an equally drunken Merry, who appeared from somewhere and was swaying unsteadily. 'Merry says…what d'you say again?'

'I said you're drunk…an' it's disgraceful.' Merry said, with a tremendous attempt at seriousness. 'We are representi' the Shire an' you're just …Stand still Pip. You're swayin' terribly.'

'I don't think it's me, Mer. I think it's you.' Pippin followed Merry closely, squinting in concentration. 'Yup. You're…well I think you're going t' fall over.'

And sure enough, Merry began to topple slowly. Gimli caught him before he fell.

'Now then, Leg'las, I have sworn to drink our goo' friend, Gumli, into…something or other.'

Merry peered up at Legolas with one eye closed. 'Can you stand still please, Legolas. I canna' see you while you wobble like that.'

'Ho, I think it's time you went home, Merry.' Gimli steadied Merry's arm and Legolas caught Pippin as he stumbled forwards.

'Nonsen'. I have only just got goin',' said Merry in a lordly tone. 'It's Frodo that can't keep his drink.' He looked around glassily. 'Where is Frodo?'

'He went home ages ago, Mer,' replied Pippin helpfully. 'It's because you are so drunk that you didn't realise. But look! Here's Leg'las to help us finish all this food, an' all this beer. And Glimli.' He frowned at Gimli. 'You're so helpful, Glim... Glimli. You're always there. An' Leg'las.' He tried to throw his arm around Legolas' shoulder but succeeded only in falling against him. 'You're a great fella' Leg'las. Always runnin and jumpin an' looking after us.' He waved his pint glass around and beer sloshed over all of them.

'Gah, Pippin!' cried Gimli in mild annoyance.

'Oops,' Pippin made a face that he clearly meant to be apologetic.

'Come on, you two. Time to go home.' Gimli took Merry's arm. But Pippin swayed dangerously and fell into Tindómion, who laughed and took Pippin's other arm.

Together they navigated the Hobbits' way through the hall, past other drunken guests or guests who had slumped over chairs or the table and snored. They passed a couple of Elves, leaning against each other and singing a bawdy song about Elbereth. One of them was Erestor.

Pippin belched loudly.

Merry cried, 'F'shame, Pip! Your manners are worse 'n…worse 'n…' He looked around for inspiration and his gaze alit upon Legolas. 'Worse 'n Leg'las.' He swayed dangerously. 'Leg'las, I love you, but you have got the worst table manners. I am sorry.'

'Apology accepted.' Legolas bowed seriously.

'But you have the appetite of a Hobbit, and for that, my fren', I salute you!'

Gimli tutted and hefted Merry's shoulder over his. 'Come on, Legolas. let's get them home.'

Between them they half carried the cheerfully drunk Hobbits away from the thinning crowds of revelers. Many cried greetings to them which the Hobbits responded cheerfully and drunkenly to the merriment of all for it was an occasion of great joy, and for the Elves there had not been this coming together of the kindreds for many, many long years.

'G'night everyone!' Merry turned and called across the gardens of the Palace. And then he turned his head towards the Palace itself and hollered loudly, 'Night Aragorn! Thank you f' havin' us. We had a…' He hiccupped and clapped his hand across his mouth comically.

'We had a lovely time!' Pippin finished for him.

Gimli cheerfully hefted an arm under Merry's shoulder and Legolas held Pippin's arm. Giggling, the two Hobbits were escorted by their friends out of the Palace gatehouse, the scene of such recent rebellion, and along the quiet square. There were small groups of young Men in the Square, drinking. Rohirrim and Gondorian. They fell a little quieter when they saw the Elves, Dwarf and Hobbits, for there was still an awe amongst the Men of the city for Elves. But one or two of them called a cheery greeting and almost all of them bowed or took off their caps as they passed. Merry and Pippin were no quieter as they walked through the almost empty streets back the House of the Fellowship.

After they had dumped Merry and Pippin on their respective beds, tugging off their shoes and throwing blankets over them, Gimli had lit a pipe and watched Legolas carefully.

'I have missed camping out under the stars,' said Gimli slowly, earth-brown eyes watching Legolas. 'Tomorrow, Legolas, we are going to fetch Arod, and we will ride beneath the trees along the edges of the mountains. I have looked at a map with Aragorn and he has suggested the best places that we might camp on the way there. One night only unless we want to stay for longer.' He patted his pocket. 'I cannot leave at dawn for I must deliver something to Gandalf. But all it needs is for him to check what I have made is suitable and I will be finished, and then we can be on our way. If you want to, that is. You may, of course, have other concerns.' He puffed on his pipe casually and sent a thin stream of grey smoke into the air.

Suddenly Legolas realised how very much he wanted, needed to do this. He wanted to be away from everyone, everything. He wanted to escape the looks, the pity. 'Very well, Elvellon. Elrond told me to visit him in the morning but if this will ease your heart I will accompany you to make sure you do not fall off.' He did not really register that it could not have been fireworks that Gimli had been working on, as the Hobbits had thought, and Gimli did not elaborate.

Tbc


	48. Chapter 48 Healing

Thanks to my very wonderful beta reader, Anarithilien, who just reassures, supports, questions, and corrects my mistakes

Also to lovely reviewers, Golden, Pame, chasingbluefish, Lysa, trishplusmamma, paradis-artificiels, LayneWolf, keekercatt (thank you for all the art!) twinjay, Gabriel, Narya, Naledi, Spiced wine, Alanic, Freddie, Nelyafinwe, Raider-K, Mirrordance, earthdragon, Nina. Also all those lovely people who sent kudos on Ao3, named and guests

 **Chapter 48: Healing**

The next morning dawned over a very quiet city. Detritus of the celebrations were strewn about the gardens, the Palace, the streets, inns, squares. But no one seemed to mind even though there were very many sore heads the next day.

Pippin and Merry were probably worse than Gimli, he thought as he rose, groaning, from his bed. But the ice-cold water he poured over his head and thick-set body woke him, and carefully he made his way down the stairs to find Sam making breakfast and Legolas feedings bits of sausage to Azaghâl. Although the Elf insisted on calling the little cat Glaurung, thought Gimli irritably.

'Glaurung is a silly name for a cat,' he said. And he heard Sam sigh as sausages sizzled and bacon spat in the pan. It was not the first time the Hobbit had heard this argument.

'It is not as silly as Azaghâl,' replied Legolas annoyingly. He seemed no worse for wear at all. He had a bright and silly grin on his face as he surveyed Gimli's delicacy.

'Legolas, there are some nice bread rolls in the oven if you wouldn't mind,' called Sam and Gimli made a face at Legolas, considering that he had had the last word. 'Then if you would make the tea that would be helpful.'

'And Gimli, if you wouldn't mind getting the marmalade and jam out, the butter is in the pantry.'

Legolas threw a smug grin back at Gimli as if HE thought HE had won, Gimli growled to himself. His head was still a bit sore. Like lots of irritating little Woodelves had taken up residence in his head and were all banging little pots and pans in there.

'Did you stay up all night?' he grumbled at Legolas as he carefully opened the pantry door and searched for marmalade. How could the Elf appear so chirpy when he had not slept at all? 'Singing to the stars and the moon I expect.' He put the conserves quietly down on the table and winced at even the slight noise.

'I did.' Legolas smiled, putting the hot rolls in a basket and placing them beside the conserves. 'I am excited by our trip and I remembered that when we were in Imladris, I was told to learn to play the fiddle properly.' He stroked a hand over Azaghâl little head and she prruped in happiness.

Gimli had a nasty feeling about Legolas' cheeky grin. He groaned as Legolas produced a fiddle from behind the back of a chair.

'I went out and found one this morning.' Legolas tucked it under his chin with a mischievous air. 'I can take it with us and play lullabies.'

'That will give Azaghâl something to sing along to,' Gimli said grumpily and pulled the bench up to the long table where Sam was sliding the sausages into a dish alongside bacon and mushrooms, eggs. There was already ham, tomatoes, bread, butter, cheese on the table alongside the marmalade and jam, and a big brown china teapot with fragrant steam curling up from the spout.

Frodo came in quite jauntily and sat down with Gimli. 'Is that a fiddle, Legolas?' he asked cheerily.

Legolas grinned and zipped the bow across the strings. A horrible scraping sound was torn from the fiddle and Frodo winced visibly. Azaghâl jumped down from bench and sat by the door, looking reproachfully at Legolas.

Gimli ground his teeth. 'Look what you have done. You've upset Azaghâl. Very well, Legolas, you win! I will beg you not to play that damned thing now.'

'Say good morning to Glaurung.' Legolas' eyes were merry and bright and for that alone, Gimli would have done more than call the cat Glaurung. The little cat licked her paw and swiped it over her head, oblivious.

'Good morning, Glaurung,' he said wryly and Legolas laughed triumphantly.

'Go and call Merry and Pippin down, Legolas,' said Sam and Legolas bounced off with a wide grin at Gimli.

'He seems more himself,' observed Frodo quietly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Legolas had gone.

'Hm,' grunted Gimli and Sam made a similar sound.

'Too bright,' said Sam.

'Too cheerful,' agreed Gimli.

'Still not eating meat?' Frodo asked, and Sam gave a quick, alarmed glance towards the door. 'Oh come, Sam, do you think you were the only one who noticed?'

They heard Legolas returning for he was whistling, a high-pitched irritating hiss through the teeth that Gimli swore was designed specifically to go through the head of a hungover Dwarf. Frodo and Sam started talking at once, too loudly but Legolas did not seem to notice and Azaghâl leapt onto Gimli's lap and flexed her sharp little claws on his thigh, purring and lifting her head up to him, she seemed to smile and Gimli was convinced there was a conspiracy between cat and Elf.

Merry and Pippin emerged later, much later, disheveled and wincing delicately in the sunlight. Neither of them spoke very much but both consumed bacon and eggs and sausages and ham and cheese and toast and fried potatoes and tomatoes and mushrooms and were still looking hungry when Sam asked Legolas where he and Gimli were going.

'We are going to fetch Arod,' Legolas said and there was such joy in his voice that Gimli wished he had thought of it sooner. 'Gimli is missing riding about like a lord and is grumpy having to go everywhere on his own two feet. Though I think Arod might not be so happy in this city of stone.' He looked down at his plate and Gimli frowned; perhaps it was not just Arod who might feel unhappy in the city? Perhaps Legolas would be better in the woods with other Elves. Not Haldir, he thought quickly. But perhaps they should have more than just one night away? He wondered why Legolas had not suggested that Elrohir come with them, or say that he and Elrohir were going out hunting, riding, whatever it was that he needed to say. But he was happy not to have Elrohir along. Gimli didn't fancy being a gooseberry.

'What a good idea!' Sam said happily to the general agreement of the Hobbits.

'Yes, sleeping on the ground with stones in your back and no Second Breakfast,' murmured Merry with one eye shut and the other squinting at Gimli. 'Sounds wonderful.'

'You, my dear Brandybuck,' said Frodo mischievously, 'have become soft!'

There was good-natured outrage on Merry's behalf so delighted was everyone that Frodo had made such a jibe at Merry's expense.

After breakfast, Merry announced that he was going to see Eowyn and that he would take Legolas' good wishes to her and arrange for the two of them to meet up on Legolas' return.

Legolas leaned his head back on the oak settle and a smile slipped over his face and Gimli was so pleased at the sight that he forgave Legolas everything and accidently called the cat Glaurung.

0o0o

It was still quite early when they left the House of the Fellowship; most of the citizens were still abed for it was a holiday today after the King's wedding. Early morning mist draped like a skein of silk over the fields and ruined orchards of Pelennor, hiding the devastation. Above them the mountain towered, its head touched with snow. Legolas breathed in and Gimli noticed that the air was warm and soft, the lightest salt on the breeze. He glanced at Legolas cautiously, but the Elf did not seem bothered by the faint smell of the Sea.

At the gatehouse of the fifth level, Gimli paused, sticking his hands in his belt. 'This is where I have set up a forge,' he told Legolas, a little proudly he knew. But it had been an accomplishment, given the lack of iron and steel in the aftermath of War, and the woeful state of the forge. In truth it had been a farrier's forge, a blacksmith rather than a craft forge, but Gimli had persuaded Men to help and now it was properly industrious.

'What is that you are making?' Legolas asked for the umpteenth time. His curious eyes travelled the narrow alley to the forge and he tilted his head as if he might see inside it.

'I have told you, Legolas. It is a commission for Gandalf and if he wants to tell you about it, he will, and if he doesn't he won't. Don't ask me anymore. My guild forbids it.' Gimli stood squarely, arms crossed and beard bristling like an angry cat.

Legolas laughed slightly. 'Then I will not press you further,' he said. 'I will wait for you at the Palace Gatehouse as we arranged, around midday.' Then he went on his way, his step lighter certainly than it had been in the days before. Gimli watched him for a while and then turned and went into the comforting heat of the forge.

The clanging of metal, hammering, and the wheeze of bellows greeted him, for his fellow smiths and craftsmen were already hard at work as if there had been no wedding or celebration the night before. These were hardy folk and used to early rises, noise and clatter. In the War, so much had been damaged that there was a great demand for everything from pots and pans to swords and armour, to horseshoes to ploughshares. The smiths greeted him cheerfully, respectfully, for Gimli was a renowned smith. They had seen him at work, smoothing steel as if it were silk, tempering blades like a lover, singing softly and murmuring under his breath so they said that dwarves did indeed cast spells of binding and strengthening over their work.

Dírheal, the master smith, came towards Gimli, wiping his hands on a cloth and flicking it over his shoulder. He wore a thick leather apron as did all the smiths. 'All is ready, master. The iron is bound and it just waits for you to agree it.'

Gimli took a similar apron down from a peg and tied it round his waist. He reached up and smoothed his own wiry hair into one long braid and tied it with a leather thong. 'Good,' he said approvingly. He liked Dírheal. He had already shown him some of the secrets of the Iron-Masters and was thinking of swearing him into the Rites so he could improve the skills of these Men.

Gimli followed Dírheal into the back of the workshop into a quieter space, where the light was dimmer and the sounds of hammering and shouting receded. What light there was gleamed on a casket, taller than a Man and wider, very plain. The iron had been cast and folded rather than welded, as if the smith did not want any chance of whatever the casket was to hold, to leak out or escape. There was another, an exact replica, standing in the shadowy corner.

'Thrice bound iron as you said.' Dírhael smoothed a hand over the polished surface. It was flawless. Absolutely plain and unremarkable but for the method of its making. 'We have used the lock and seal system you designed, master. Each layer has a double deadbolt cylinder only unlockable from the outside. Nothing can get out. No leakage is possible. I have tested it myself.'

Gimli nodded seriously. 'Thank you master Dírhael. I think Mithrandir will be pleased. We will deliver this one to him today and start on the second if he is pleased with this.' He paused thoughtfully. 'If you would send someone to tell him, we will meet him at the Rath Dínen within the hour. I will need your bravest men.'

He stood looking at the casket and thought of what would be placed within. He had burned with the desire to unlock its secret, to explore its mechanisms. But now, after he had heard what had happened to Legolas, Gimli Gloinsson simply wanted to lock the Glass away in the casket he had made and forget it had ever been. He hoped Gandalf knew what he was doing.

o0o0o

Legolas made his way to the Houses of Healing. He had not found Elrohir though he had been to his rooms, but he could not find Elladan either and so he had left a note with Aradhel who was delighted to hear that Legolas was going to Lebinnin. As Legolas made his way to the House of Healing, he admitted to himself that he was as disappointed as he might be at not finding Elrohir. And last night Erestor had reminded him that he could take his time. Not everything had to be done at breakneck speed. He could take his time. And had not Elrohir said the very same earlier that evening? Elrohir had also said, 'I want to be with you forever. I love you.'

But it did not make Legolas' heart soar. Instead he frowned and sighed, skirted around what really plagued him and nibbled away at him obliquely; there was a creeping shadow that stalked him, as if something hid behind the curtains, or crouched in the corners watching.

He entered the Houses of Healing, and stopped the first brown-robed healer he encountered, a younger woman with light brown hair and hazel eyes who stared at him in excited awe. He had to ask three times before she came to her senses and took him to where Elrond was staying.

She ushered him into a small room filled with chairs and a bench under the window. He did not sit but stood looking out over a small courtyard. He thought that perhaps the rooms Elrond had must look over the now familiar garden. A blackbird sang. Morning sunshine filled the courtyard and the lime trees that edged it, cast a friendly shade over a small fountain that splashed into a pool. Remembering that he had sat there sometimes, he watched the blackbird pick over the leaves and small stones in the soil in short jerky movements.

I am nervous, he realised. It was not only the shyness of meeting Elrohir's father, he admitted, it was also that he did not know what Elrond might find, or perceive. After all, the Ghoul had not only cut him, it had bitten him too. A little bit of Legolas was afraid he might be infected with whatever had transformed Bearos into the Ghoul. Might he become one of those blood-sucking creatures they whispered about in the Wood, a child of Thuringwethil; he had seen one once in the south, climbing up the side of an old guard tower towards him, but Laersul had arrived just in time. Once bitten by such a thing it was said, and you became as they. Maybe it was that in him that made him flee from Elrohir, that Elrohir might perceive it? Maybe it was a shadow upon him that made him think there were shadows crowding about him, about Elrohir?

He moved restlessly about the room, picking up small objects without looking at them, putting them down, moving them. He needed to move, he realised. He was not really made for stillness. Unless it was scouting or hiding.

There was noise from the next room. Elrond must be in there already, he thought and chewed his lip, wishing he had not come.

At that moment, the door opened and Elrond's kindly, noble face smiled at him. He was dressed simply, in breeches and shirt with a serviceable tunic of wool belted over it.

'Legolas! I am pleased you came. Come in.'

'My lord.' Legolas bowed his head respectfully.

'Elrond, please,' murmured Elrond, beckoning Legolas forward.

The room was comfortable, not grand at all. In fact, it reminded Legolas of nothing so much as his own father's study and a sudden longing seized him for the Wood.

'I did not want to stay in the Palace,' Elrond was saying, as if he read Legolas' thoughts. 'The chance to learn from Healers here and to teach them in return is too great an opportunity, and I like being busy. Sitting about a Palace all day with nothing to do is torment!' Elrond gestured to a comfortable armchair near the window, which was open and Legolas realised that the noise he had heard must have been Elrond dragging it to the window. Another chair stood opposite and Elrond sat in that one and rested his elbows on the arms, steepling his fingers. 'I have usually climbed to the top of the Valley and back by now when I am at home,' he said conversationally. 'And then I ride a patrol before I can even sit down and start any business for the day.' He smiled at Legolas' surprise that the Lord of Imladris was such a restless soul.

'And how is Master Gimli this morning,' Elrond asked unexpectedly, 'and our friends, Master Merry and Pippin?' He smiled a little mischievously and Legolas was astonished. Elrond was nothing like he expected.

'They are a little delicate,' he answered, bemused.

Elrond leapt to his feet and busied himself at a bureau, there was a clinking of glass and he held up a small glass bottle and swirled it. 'Here. Give them this. It will make them feel much better. It has always worked for any number of my foster sons.' He held it out to Legolas. 'And my own sons,' he added a little more quietly.

Legolas found Elrond's eyes upon him, searching his face lightly, but he felt something else brush tentatively against him. Something that subtly pressed against his thoughts and heart. But not intrusively. Just…concern; a fatherly concern that reminded him again of Thranduil. He tugged a little thread on his sleeve and then stopped for they were so tightly sewn he could not find one to pull. He recognised Gimli's hand in this and was mildly exasperated by the Dwarf's kindly over-concern.

Elrond threw himself back in his chair with the same easy grace as Elrohir and crossed one leg, ankle on the knee, hands dangled over the arms of the chair in the same manner as Elrohir and Legolas had to blink for they were so alike in manner and look.

Elrond moved his head slightly. 'I have a tea of athelas and all-heal. I hope you don't mind. There is camomile and a little thyme in it as well.'

Legolas hoped it didn't taste as disgusting as Aragorn's tea usually did. After all, he must have got the recipe from Elrond. He smiled politely and thought he that if he could cope with Galion's rabbit pie, he could probably force down a cup of Elrond's tea.

'There is honey in it,' Elrond added with a lift of his eyebrow, as if he had heard Legolas' thoughts. He poured a light golden tea from a china pot.

Shit, thought Legolas. He's like Galadriel. He shot a quick look at Elrond and found the Lord's grey eyes upon him, amused.

'I am pleased that you and Gimli have become such friends,' Elrond said, sparing Legolas any further embarrassment and handing him a cup. The steam that rose from the tea smelled fragrant. Legolas sipped it gingerly, expecting it to scald and taste like willowbark. But it was sweet and it was the camomile he could taste, so the honey made it bearable.

Elrond was saying, 'Gandalf is impossibly smug about it although I always thought you would. Dwarves are very easy to get on with. My father always said so and I have found that to be true.'

Legolas couldn't remember who Elrond's father was; wasn't he something to do with the North Star or Fëanor? Maybe it was Gil-Galad? He had never really attended to his lessons and Galion was indulgent and filled his head with tales of the Wood and Sindarin heroes instead of the boring Noldor. He knew of course about Doriath, the great battles of the First Age and the heroes like Fingon who had fought alongside the great Sindar against Morgoth. But he had no interest in their genealogy, and nor did Thranduil.

'My father has a rather different view about dwarves,' Legolas said, smiling. 'But my brother, Laersul, likes them. He is the envoy to Erebor and spends quite a lot of time there. He knew them before the dragon.'

'Ah, the dragon.' Elrond's eyes kindled with interest. 'You never forget them once seen.'

'You have seen Smaug?' asked Legolas quietly, for he had never forgotten the sight of the dragon, soaring on the wind with fire lighting its golden scales.

'Not Smaug.' Elrond was serious now. 'But there were firedrakes that escaped at the end of the First Age. There were some that ravaged the Ered Luin. It's the silence you can't forget, and then the fire.' He looked at Legolas and his grey eyes were kind. 'Shall we take our tea and go and walk in the garden? It seems a shame to be inside.'

The garden was in full bloom now, Legolas realised. Blossom on the lime trees scented the air sweetly. The sun was gentle under their shady leaves and the garden soothed him. And once he became used to the flavour, the tea was not unpleasant. He felt himself relaxing as they walked under the limes, drinking tea and Elrond was an easy companion. He pointed out the medicinal herbs and spoke of their properties, and at last, they came to the same stone bench that he had sat upon with Elrohir before. Elrond gestured to the bench, inviting Legolas to sit. 'If you are happy to, let us sit here. I shall listen.'

He spread his hands wide so that Legolas saw the ring on his finger and how it glowed softly. It sang to him, lilac and diamond light, soothing him, finding the tangled notes of his own Song, and unravelling, smoothing them out.

Swallows swooped and darted over the garden. It was restful and he appreciated the lengths whoever had designed the garden had gone to in order to make a healing and soothing place in these houses.

'I usually start with a patient by just talking through how they feel,' Elrond said matter-of-factly. 'Just the physical symptoms. We do not usually talk about how they come to have those symptoms, just what they are.' He shrugged. 'I have found that is the most effective way for a spiritual healing as well as physical,' he said calmly and his apparent unconcern made Legolas feel more relaxed, as if it did not really matter if it was spiritual or physical healing he needed, for Elrond was used to healing the fëa as well as the hröa. He made it feel easy.

'I actually feel much better,' he began. 'Though my muscles are weakened and I cannot draw a bow fully. My shoulders are recovering.' He rolled his shoulders for the acknowledgement of pain reminded him of his injury. 'My skin is healed well. The cuts were superficial though, mainly.'

Elrond nodded, his face still and Legolas wondered if he already knew.

'My hand is sore.' He flexed his hand carefully for the Ghoul had broken it when it had bashed his hand against the stone to loosen his knife. 'But the bones are knitting. The knife was clean though, I think, and there is no infection.'

Legolas stopped, his gaze skipping away from Elrond's kind concern. He did not want to articulate where some of those cuts had been. He was not ready for that yet.

But Elrond did not press him. He merely turned slightly towards Legolas and nodded in agreement. 'Good. You are clear about injuries. You move well enough considering, and you walk smoothly. Are you in any pain?'

'Not much. At least, not more than I can easily bear and it gets better every day.' He was relieved that Elrond did not press him but seemed happy enough with what he had said, and content to sit here in the sun. Elrond sat easily beside Legolas, relaxed, hands spread on the bench seat and feet a little apart, leaning back and face slightly tipped up to the sun. Legolas lifted his own face up likewise and realised that the light was intense, warm, he felt bathed in it. He felt he was leaning into the light, he did not quite have the words but he knew somehow that Elrond would not let him fall into darkness and pain.

He found himself thinking how the sky was clear and blue above him, the earth beneath his feet firm and solid. The wind was simply air that moved over the mountains, the deserts, the Sea…

Legolas hardly knew when he had begun telling Elrond of his deeper hurts; he told about the black web, and then how Gandalf and he had found the Mirror in Minas Morgul, that Ioralas had gone missing and he felt somehow responsible, and then the Ghoul. He told Elrond how foolish he had felt until Erestor had spoken to him and eased that sense, but how beholden and grateful he was to those who had to risk their lives for him. When he came to describe the horror of his captivity, he closed his eyes and the words seemed unnecessary. Instead he remembered, the images rolling through his memory one after another.

Legolas was afraid, at first, that the memories alone would plunge him deep into the past, into the fear and terror of being trapped, the Ghoul creeping closer and closer, its hot breath on his thigh, its clawed fingers scrabbling and grasping at him, clawing at his thigh, his groin, digging and piercing the skin, the horrid tongue on him, lapping at his blood with its snuffling and yaffling, its sniggers and twitches. And the grey silk of the Mirror closing over him, suffocating him, the Nazgul like trapped crows flapping towards him, their shrieks and bites. The fear…

But instead a soft light caressed him, warded him so he stood looking at if at a distance and he thought Elrond stood beside him while he, Legolas, showed Elrond what had happened. Look how stupid I am, he said covering his face, but instead of agreement, a warmth crept through him, reassurance. What if I am infected and become as they?

No. Courage. Look.

He opened carefully other memories, as if peering into a casket together and Legolas saw himself standing with Rhawion, with Gimli against the Balrog. Slowly, one by one, some of the events of the Past were uncovered again, and he shyly revealed things to Elrond at his quiet encouragement. There was the Sea…its rush and sough, the soaring gulls…Elrond paused over that and then moved on quickly. Show me the Siege, he pushed gently. And so Legolas remembered what he had done, culminating in his leaping over the wall after the Ghoul, remembered that he had to stop it so it did not threaten those he loved, and the city that was recovering from the trauma of War…He showed Elrond how Elrohir had rescued him, but Elrond also uncovered how Legolas had tried to prevent Elrohir from finding him, how Legolas had protected Elrohir, and stood above the Ghoul and stabbed it with Elrohir's sentient and knowing sword …

He was aware that Elrond was still beside him and their breathing had come together. Gently. Not panicked, not fearful. He could look at the memory without cringing and shying away. And he could remember what else he had done, saw himself as others saw him perhaps a little. As Erestor too had said.

Not a fool. Not a victim. He was more than his imprisonment, more than just a bloody feast for the Nazgûl and their slave.

Vilya showed Legolas how his heart was weighed down by the deadening experience of War and deep, unspent grief for those he had lost. His Song too would forever be wound about with those other threads: the darkness of the Nazgûl's touch, the faint rush and sough of the Sea. Smaug. But now, Vilya showed him how his deeds, his hurts, his experiences added layers and harmonies, textures that made his own Song more complex, richer now than when he left the Wood. And there was the strong melody that wound about his own sweet forest song, a song that was clear and strong, reminiscent of the snow-clad mountains where the eagle cried.

That is Elrohir, he told Elrond, smiling.

Vilya smoothed Legolas' own Song of sunlight on the green buds of the beech trees, green-gold, the forest river rushing over granite boulders worn smooth, pooling in deep green bowls where ferns and moss reflected in the silent water, butterflies fluttering at the tops of oak trees… The Ring of Air untangled the knotted notes of his pain and hurt, his shame and hiding. It showed him that he was still Legolas Thranduillion. Captain of the East Bite. A Companion of the Ringbearer. And always a Woodelf.

At last Elrond drew back slowly and Legolas felt a great sigh escape him as if he had been holding his breath and did not know. A rush of air and light surged into him and the Ring on Elrond's hand was shot with light. Legolas bowed his head in awe and gratitude.

He could not speak for a long while and only when Elrond stirred did he see that the sun was now high in the sky and that the morning was passing.

'Here, drink this.' Elrond pushed a small pewter flask into his hand and he took it gratefully. 'Only a few sips mind. It is powerful.'

Miruvor. Its sweetness and flavour flooded his mouth and his head cleared.

Thank you my lord,' he said humbly and made no move to leave. He was no vampire. No crouching beast lurked in his blood waiting for him to succumb. He breathed deeply.

'Do you go to Elrohir now?' Elrond asked gently. He turned his head towards Legolas and his eyes were anxious, enquiring, but it was for his son, Legolas realised.

His own love for Elrohir rushed through him and he smiled, his eyes clear. It did not matter that he had not found Elrohir earlier for he felt Elrohir's love caress him, cradle him and shelter him. 'My heart knows its course.' He smiled again, and felt his whole being ignite. Elrond's eyes widened a little and his lips parted. It made him eerily alike to Elrohir and Legolas shook his head slightly, laughing. 'I will go to him tomorrow evening on my return from the Lebinnin where I go to fetch my good friend, Arod, with my other good friend, Gimli.' Legolas rose to his feet and bowed sincerely to Elrond. 'I thank you again, my lord,' he said ignoring Elrond's weak protest at the title. 'It is a title well-bestowed.' He stretched his arms up over his head and laughed at the sensation of muscles sliding under his skin, his sinews that had been so pulled and abused, elastic. 'I can feel my body healing. And I know where my heart lies.'

0o0o


	49. Chapter 49 Recovery

This is especially for Naledi- Happy Birthday I have another little fic I am working on for Elladan and Imrahil that I was going to post today for your birthday but chickened out!

Thanks as always to my fab beta reader, Anarithilien.

And thank you to all those who leave kudos or reviews and comments. It really is encouraging and is always the writer's reward. Thanks to Golden, Pame, chasingbluefish, Samui, Starfox_5000, paradis_artificiels, LayneWolf, keekercat (who is the Mother-of Plot-Bunnies!), twinjay, Naledi, Spiced Wine, Gabriel, Narya, Neyafinwefeanorian, earthdragon (sorry- no black pudding- I hate it!) Alanic, freddie23, SparkyTAS, Raider-K. And for kudos from Veill, LorienofLoth, pmhw, astrogirl, patrese1 (hello again ) spalso (hello again to you ) widlfoot, and the 447 guests who left kudos. Thank you all.

This chapter is especially for Aragorn-fans.

Chapter 49: Recovery

Aragorn could not stop smiling. Like a fool, Arwen had said last night as they slid into the huge bed and into each other's arms. His wife. His wife! He felt like jumping in the air and whooping like a child.

She was still asleep when he stole from the bedchamber into the garden and picked roses for her, dew still upon them for the sun was just rising and he wanted them to be the first thing she saw when she awoke.

'For my wife,' he explained the roses to Aradhel, who was opening the door to Aragorn's study, a sheaf of papers clutched to his chest. The little clerk's face split into the widest grin imaginable and he looked as happy as Aragorn himself.

'My wife,' he repeated to himself happily.

Arwen laughed at him when he thrust the roses under her nose and woke her with kisses along her jaw, her collarbone, cupped her breast in his hand and marveled at how soft it was. She pulled him down to her and, to his delight and ecstasy, stopped his mouth with her own kisses. But where he was hoping for more of what he had enjoyed last night, Arwen had other ideas and she leapt up, naked and unashamed, (why should she be for she was perfect!) and laughed at his protests.

'I have too much to do, my lazy lord slug-a-bed! You will have to wait until tonight.'

He heard her splashing about in the bathroom and she emerged quickly, her long hair streaming down her back, wearing a loose and comfortable gown and her beautiful, perfect feet bare. Aragorn loved her feet. He loved her ankles. He loved her elbows…her breasts…he thought about her breasts a bit longer.

'You have that silly expression on your face,' Arwen laughed at him and threw a pillow at him. He smiled so happily he thought he would burst.

'Why are you up and dressed so early?' he asked, reaching out to catch her hand, but she pulled away lightly.

'May I remind you, my lord, that you have a kingdom and someone has to run it!' She tossed her hair over one shoulder and brushed it quickly, twisted it into a coil and fastened it at the nape of her neck. Aragorn thought she looked so beautiful, so radiant…

'You're doing it again! Close your mouth or a fly will go down your throat.'

She stood up and thrust her feet into soft sandals and gathered the gown about her slender waist, cinching it with a fine leather belt.' Right. I am going to meet with Aradhel and Faramir. I will see you later today at the Council.'

'Why are you meeting Aradhel and Faramir?' Aragorn asked, bemused.

Arwen laughed. 'The Elessar Aqueduct will not build itself, my darling. And I want to make sure that Gimli sees the plans before he leaves.'

'Gimli? What do you mean? Where is he going?' Aragorn suddenly felt completely adrift.

'He and Legolas are going to the Lebinnin to fetch Legolas' horse. I have a quick question for him before he leaves.''

'Legolas and Gimli are going out of the city? They'll be camping out and riding all day.' He knew he sounded plaintive. 'How is it that you know all these things and I don't?' He looked up at her.

Arwen rolled her eyes affectionately. 'Aradhel told me.'

'How does he know?' He was indignant now- after all, he was supposed to the King!

'Oh my darling Estel! Aradhel knows everything. Have you not realised that yet? He is a treasure.' She looked at him a little more seriously now. 'You must make him your chancellor. Give him power to do things and you will see how he can transform this city.'

Aragorn rubbed his chin, slightly ashamed for he had let Bearos drive Aradhel from his side when he knew that the clerk was the most loyal man he could wish for. 'I will,' he promised. 'But if Gimli and Legolas are here, I can have breakfast with them while you are in your meeting.'

'Do not forget that Gimli is meeting with Mithrandir this morning. He may not have time for breakfast with you, my darling. But Legolas might. Go and find him,' she said briskly. That could not possibly be a note of impatience in her mellifluous voice?

'Perhaps later we can go for a walk together?' Aragorn said wistfully.

Arwen threw him a quick look that was definitely a bit impatient. 'Maybe. But you do know that I have engineers and stone masons coming in this morning. And then the Ladies of the Girdle.' She sighed and Aragorn twitched slightly guiltily for he had been asked by the widow of Lord Herion if the Queen would follow the tradition of Finduilas and meet the ladies of the noble families every week…He winced, trying to forget what Arwen had said when he told her.

She was cinching in her belt rather crossly now and so Aragorn thought he had better not mention that the ladies were expected to sew and embroider.

'Once I have finished there, I will join you in the Council,' Arwen was saying as she pinned an elegant brooch over a chiffon shawl that she had thrown around her shoulders. The delicate lilac and blue set off her hair so beautifully that Aragorn just wanted to sit and stare at her. 'Oh, and don't forget, you are also needed by Mithrandir. He wants to move that damned Mirror into the Tower of Ecthelion. Do that before you find Legolas my darling. He won't want to be reminded of the Mirror.'

'No one else is supposed to know about that,' Aragorn said slightly concerned. But she just threw him a look that was all Galadriel. 'I would have told you anyway,' he added quickly.

When Arwen had whisked off, Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. Under the bed was his bedroll, tightly rolled with a blanket, and tied with a leather belt. He had not slept in the bed at all until last night; it was too soft and hot. But last night it had served another purpose and he smiled blissfully; he had never dreamed it could be like this. Even if Arwen had indeed rushed off to work, leaving him sitting here like an idle lady of some great house.

It had been easier in some ways when he had just been Strider, he thought gloomily. But now, in this time of Peace, there was no need for the skills for which he was famed; he did not need to track Orcs, or hunt for food, or fight the Enemy any more. All of that was gone. Arwen loved governing, she loved councils and projects and surpassed any other, Erestor said. She would be much better at it than him. So Aragorn decided he would have to find something he was good at. It would have to involve things he liked, like armour and swords, and perhaps fighting. And some tracking. Perhaps he should attack the Pirates of Umbar and make the waterways safe for travellers?

He pulled on his boots a little more happily, thinking that Legolas and Gimli would enjoy an expedition to Umbar too. And that would bring wealth to the city and open trade routes or something. He wasn't quite sure about that bit, but Arwen would know what to do and how. They would make a great team, he told himself cheerfully.

0o0o

Although he had told Elrond he would see Elrohir on his return, Legolas knew that Elrond had meant for him to go and see Elrohir. As he left the Houses of Healing, it seemed such a small thing to find Elrohir, to make his peace before he left Minas Tirith. He thought as well about what Erestor had said and so he made his way to the wing of the Palace where Elrohir and Elladan's rooms were. Although he did not bound up the steps to Elrohir's room, he felt his limbs moving easily, the hunch in his shoulders had lessened and he felt lighter. More himself.

He knocked only briefly and opened the door, stepping inside. For a moment, he was disappointed, thinking that there was no one in the room but the long gauze of the curtain fluttered and he saw a shadow at the window. He froze. A finger of ice stroked his spine and he felt the hairs on his neck and scalp stiffen. He reached back and brushed his fingers over the hilts of his knives, hearing their sharp little whispers. Silently he drew each one, a rill of blue fire glinted along the blades.

Orcs, he wondered? But that could not be.

Then the shadow moved slowly, and resolved into Elrohir. He had been standing at the window, looking out over the rooftops of the city.

'Legolas?' Elrohir's voice was incredulous, filled with hope, and doubt.

Legolas let go the breath he had been holding and let the knives slide back into their sheath. He breathed out and let his shoulders drop.

Elrohir must have seen his tension and release because he came towards Legolas, his face concerned, almost fearful. 'I startled you? Forgive me?'

Elrohir was anxious, hesitant, Legolas realised. It made him cringe at his own unkindness, his own fear that had made him act so ungenerously last night.

'No. No, it was just…' He shrugged and smiled ruefully. Then he slid his arms around Elrohir. 'I love you,' he said quietly, earnestly. 'I have missed you.' He looked into Elrohir's disbelieving eyes and felt guilty for his carelessness, for Erestor had told him that Elrohir would doubt himself, would think he was unworthy. Legolas tutted at himself and his own clumsiness. 'I wanted to find you. After last night. I love you,' he said again, nuzzling into Elrohir's neck.

Elrohir said nothing but gave a little gasp and Legolas drew back a little and tilted his head so he could look into his lover's face. 'What?' he said, thinking that perhaps he had got everything wrong.

'Nothing,' Elrohir shook his head and smiled so radiantly that Legolas laughed.

'I have not said it enough before,' he confessed, 'because I did not think I needed to. Our Songs are so entwined. But now I see that I was wrong.' He kissed Elrohir then, sweetly. Breathing in, Legolas pressed his face against Elrohir's shoulder. A long sigh escaped him as if a loaded spring were uncurling and stretching out like a cat, as if the tension in his blood and bones was smoothing out.

Legolas laughed a little at himself. 'You are my home now,' he said and Elrohir seemed to slump a little too, as he were also holding his breath and had let it go. The sunlight streamed through the window brightly and pooled on the oak floor. Just out of the corner of his eye he saw the gauzy curtain lift slightly in a breeze. Thin black shadows crept across the pooled sunlight like fingers. The silk of the curtains sounded like a slither of dry scales. Horror crawled over his neck for a moment and he pulled back, eyes wide.

'Legolas?' Elrohir stepped away from him, immediately releasing Legolas and moving away, giving him room. His voice was solicitous.

Legolas felt his heart thundering in his chest and his limbs trembled with the need to fly from this place.

But the curtain moved again in the breeze and there was nothing. A scent of roses drifted in on the air.

And there was only Elrohir, standing very still and looking at him as if he were a frightened wild animal that he did not wish to alarm.

Legolas rubbed his hand across his face and closed his eyes for a moment. 'It is nothing…I jump at shadows,' he said disgusted with himself. I keep imagining things. I see…what is not there.' Because he knew now that his fears were imagined, they were not real. Elrond had begun to unravel the knots and tangles of his humiliation and pain and he had begun to recover, believed that he could.

Elrohir sat on the edge of the bed, his head bowed and his hands twisting the ring on his finger. He looked miserable and dejected.

It wrung Legolas' heart and he knelt at Elrohir's feet and lay his head on his lover's thigh. He sighed. 'Gimli thinks I need time away from the city.'

He felt the warmth from Elrohir's hand over his hair but Elrohir did not touch him. So Legolas wrapped his arms about Elrohir's hips, and turned his face into Elrohir's thigh, pressed against him. 'And I am not quite … myself yet. I don't know. I want you so very much…but I startle at my own shadow. Your father helped me and I am recovering, but not quite yet.'

Elrohir's head was still bowed as if in shame and Legolas glanced up at him. At that Elrohir seemed to draw himself together, to steel himself. 'I think it is a good idea to have some time away from the city,' he said quietly. 'It will give you time to be amongst the trees, away from all this. And time with Gimli is always good for you. He earths you.'

Legolas laughed slightly. It made him sound like lightning that had to be tethered but he knew that was not what Elrohir meant. He asked, 'Will you come with us?' he asked.

'No. I have things I must do here,' Elrohir replied as Legolas thought he would.

He sighed, a little disappointed. 'I am sorry. I do need more time. I thought I did not but I do.'

'How long will you be gone?' There was sadness in Elrohir's voice that matched Legolas' own, like they were bidding farewell for more than just a day or two.

'Not long. Just to fetch Arod. Gimli missed sleeping on the hard ground with leaves in his hair and wild animals on the prowl.'

'I will miss you,' Elrohir said softly and Legolas nodded. He would miss Elrohir too. But he realised that he already missed him, as if he were not quite here even though he was leaning against his thigh and Elrohir's hand hovered over Legolas' hair.

0o0o0o

Aragorn found Gandalf at the foot of the Tower of Ecthelion with Beregond. The iron casket that Gimli had made and which now contained the Mirror was being carefully carried up the winding steps. Galadriel was waiting for them in the Tower for there were binding spells that needed to be cast so that nothing could escape the casket. Thrice iron-bound it was so that sorcery could not break it.

'And you say Khamûl was not there?' Aragorn asked again.

'He has gone and there is no trace. He could not have escaped without my knowing,' Gandalf said confidently. He looked up at the Tower. 'No. I think he has been dragged back into the Dark. Or perhaps it was not Khamûl that we saw, but maybe a projection, trying to protect the Glass perhaps?' Gandalf shrugged. 'Who knows? But he is gone.'

A little doubt niggled away at the back of Aragorn's mind, but when he tried to think about what had happened to him when Bearos attacked him, his mind was sluggish and clouded and he could not quite remember. There is something important, he knew, but he could not grasp it and when he reached for the memory, it slipped away.

Gandalf had climbed up after the casket and had forbidden anyone to enter so that he and Galadriel alone were there and Aragorn stood with Beregond at the foot of the Tower.

'I have set the guard.' Beregond nodded towards two of his Tower Guards who stood watch. 'Two of your own Rangers are inside.'

'Good.' Aragorn walked a little way with his captain, looking up at the impenetrable Tower and nodding courteously to the two Men who were on guard.

'It was a difficult task, taking the casket up there, my lord. It is in the cell that we kept Bearos in.'

Aragorn felt a frisson of danger at the thought but surely there could be no danger from simply putting it where Bearos had been? There could be no connection, no lingering sorcery? He shook himself. I am being fanciful, he told himself.

'There is something else, your majesty,' said Beregond. 'This.'

He held out his hand and Aragorn looked warily; it was a ring. But he recognised it instantly. It was the same ring he had seen on Elrohir's hand ever since he could remember; gold, a small crimson jewel winked at him in the sunlight. The ring that Celebrían had given to her favourite son.

'I know this,' he said. 'It is my brother's, Elrohir's. Where did you find it?'

Beregond fidgeted uncomfortably. 'It was in the cell, near the Mirror itself.'

Aragorn nodded. 'He must have lost it when he fought the Ghoul. It must have slipped off.'

'Of course, your majesty,' Beregond said relieved. 'I just thought it was odd, alarming. To find a ring in that place. I thought for a moment…' He laughed nervously. 'Well, it doesn't matter what I thought. I am glad to have found its owner then.'

'It was given him by his mother, before she sailed,' Aragorn said quietly. He took it from Beregond carefully and closed his hand about it protectively, as he would protect Elrohir if he could. It would have been hard on Elrohir to have lost it. Briefly he wondered that Elrohir had not said anything but Aragorn reminded himself that Elrohir had had much to distract him, or perhaps he had missed it but not wished to burden anyone else with it.

Aragorn pocketed the ring and made his way through the Palace towards the chambers where his brothers were housed. Or at least, Elrohir, for Elladan was away hunting with Imrahil, Glorfindel and Erestor on the Mindolluin. Aragorn thought it would have benefitted Elrohir to have gone with them but he had wanted to be with Legolas, to be near him having so recently almost lost him.

He knocked tentatively on Elrohir's door, thinking that perhaps Legolas would be there too and not wishing to interrupt them.

But it was flung open almost immediately and Elrohir was there, startled, and then disappointed it seemed. He turned away and went back inside. Aragorn followed him.

'I am sorry, you are expecting Legolas?' he asked, thinking that Elrohir looked tired, but not the happy, energized tired that Aragorn felt from a night of love-making, but instead a weariness.

'No,' Elrohir said shortly. 'He has gone.' He did not turn round but pulled his sword belt round his waist and buckled it. He slid Aícanaro partly out of the sheath and then let it drop back in.

'Already?' Aragorn asked disappointed that he had not seen Legolas. But when Elrohir looked up, Aragorn was shocked by the bleakness in his brother's face.

'Maybe you should go with them?' he suggested.

Elrohir's head dropped and he breathed out through his nose. 'No. It will be good for Legolas to be out of the city, and good for him to be with Gimli. I will not come between them.' He fiddled with something on the table but he looked annoyed with himself, like he was inwardly berating himself.

Aragorn sighed and felt the ring in the palm of his hand. It cheered him a little for he knew that it would have grieved Elrohir to have lost his mother's ring.

'I have come to return something.' He held out the ring.

Elrohir looked down, and froze. His face was white and he clutched the side of the table as if he might stumble.

'Did you not know you had lost it?' Aragorn asked puzzled.

Elrohir blinked, and shook his head. Then he held out his hand for it and Aragorn dropped it into his open palm. 'Where did you find it?' he asked.

Aragorn shifted uncomfortably. 'This morning Gandalf had some of my men move the Mirror out of the tombs. He had a special casket made by Gimli and they moved it this morning when the city was quiet. They found this. It must have come off during your fight with Bearos. You must not tell anyone, not even Legolas, that the Mirror has been moved, Elrohir. Gandalf felt its whereabouts was too widely known, and with the story of Legolas' imprisonment by the Ghoul, too many people speculate, or are curious. Your ring was on the floor of the cell,' he said. 'Thank Elbereth it was found. I know how important it is to you.' He placed it in Elrohir's hand. 'Don't lose it again.'

Elrohir stared down at it. Aragorn followed his gaze and sunlight glinted on something already on Elrohir's hand. Gold.

'You have another ring?' he asked curiously for he could only see the gold band around Elrohir's finger for his palm still faced up.

Elrohir snatched his hand back. 'Just a trinket,' he said quickly. 'My hand felt empty without my mother's ring. I will not wear it now I have this back.' He forced a smile. 'Thank you, Estel. I do not know how I came to lose it.' He closed his palm over the ring and Aragorn saw that the ring he already wore was very alike with a red gemstone set in gold, but it was very old and the gold was worn thin. He tilted his head slightly to look at it more closely but Elrohir drew his hand back.

'A trinket,' he repeated. He twisted it on his finger, consternation momentarily flickered over his face but he did not take it off. He slid Celebrían's ring over a different finger, but he did not spread his hand and look at the ring that Aragorn had returned to him as one might either. Instead he closed his fist over it as if he wished to hide both rings.

'Tell me again why Gandalf wanted the Mirror moved?' Elrohir said, turning towards Aragorn. He seemed to have recovered from his shock and throwing his arm around Aragorn's shoulder, he steered Aragorn towards one of the two chairs set on either side of an empty hearth for it was Summer in Gondor.

'So many people know about the Mirror now,' Aragorn repeated as he sank into the deep. comfortable chair and leaned back. 'I don't mean Glorfindel and Erestor. But there are many Men who also know and Gandalf felt it was safer in the Tower of Ecthelion. Easier to guard. He asked me to order a troop to move it this morning.'

'And Khamûl?' asked Elrohir, his head tilted slightly to one side and his eyes glittered. 'Mithrandir bound him but he was imprisoned in the cell presumably? What has Mithrandir done about Khamûl if he has moved the Mirror?'

Aragorn paused for he was not entirely happy with Gandalf's response to him when he asked the same question. 'Gandalf believes he has been sucked back into the Dark.'

Elrohir quirked an eyebrow, unaware of how like his father he was. 'And where does Gandalf think he went? That he disappeared in a puff of smoke like some conjuring trick?' His voice, his manner was disdainful and Aragorn leaned back, frowning.

'Khamûl must have possessed Bearos somehow,' Aragorn said slowly. 'Perhaps now that his host is gone, he has also gone. It is the only explanation.' Aragorn paused thoughtfully. 'Khamûl could not have escaped Gandalf's binding spell. When my men got there, there was no trace of Khamûl and the Glass was still and quiet. They have gone. You defeated them.'

Elrohir's expression was one of sardonic amusement that confused Aragorn. It was something too in the way Elrohir sat heavily on the edge of his chair, his hands loosely clasped before him but they tightened slowly over the rings, and his face gradually hardened. 'Good. So we are free.'

Aragorn felt a strange discomfort, a prickling at the edges of his nerves and he thought perhaps he had exhausted himself, for he too was not fully recovered from his own injuries. The words his brother had spoken seemed oddly loaded but he shrugged it off, thinking he was tired himself.

'Estel?' When he looked up, the harshness had gone from Elrohir's face and there was only kindness and concern. He leaned towards Aragorn, holding out his hand, palm upwards in invitation. Sighing, Aragorn put his hand in Elrohir's, felt his brother's fingers probe gently at his wrist. His blood pulsed under Elrohir's fingertips, the steady thunder of blood through his veins and arteries and for a moment he became intensely aware of it. There was something unsettling in Elrohir's eyes, but he blinked and it was gone.

Even so, Aragorn pulled away gently and smiled. 'I am a little tired,' he said lightly. 'That is all. You do not need to examine me.'

Elrohir smiled. 'I am sure you did not get quite enough sleep last night.'

'Nor you,' Aragorn replied gently. But Elrohir turned his face away then and looked towards the window. Aragorn winced for Elrohir's hurt was plain. It was his love for him that prompted Aragorn to say, 'Why do you not take Barakhir and ride after Legolas? Have some time in the Lebinnin away from everyone else?'

But Elrohir was rising to his feet, restless and tense. 'He has Gimli and I would not intrude on those two.'

Aragorn laughed. 'They are like an old married couple, it is true.' He watched Elrohir carefully, the healer in him cataloguing the movements, the strain in his brother's face. 'But Legolas loves you. It is you he wants more than anything. Gimli might complain a little but he will give way if you pursue them.'

'No.'

Aragorn shrugged sadly. Was that the way of it then? Legolas had gone and Elrohir, bruised and hurt, was either brooding at some perceived rejection, or the rejection had been real and Legolas gone in more ways than merely the physical. He tapped his finger against the stone window sill for a moment. And then wondered where Elladan was. For if Elrohir had indeed been rejected by Legolas, no one could help.

0o0o0o


End file.
